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OUR    V ILL  AGE 


THE  WORKS  OF  JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN 


CY  WHITTAKER'S  PLACE 

MR.  PRATT  "CAP'N  ERI" 

PARTNERS  OF  THE  TIDE 

THE  "  OLD  HOME  HOUSE  " 

CAPE  COD  BALLADS 


Good  morning,  Pashy.     How  d'ye  do,  Huldy?     Nice  seasonable 
weather  we're  having.'  " 

[Page  67.J 


OUR 


BY 


JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN. 

Author  of  "Cy  Whittaker's  Place," 
"Cap'n  Eri,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW    YORK 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
D.   APPLETON  AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1906,  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
Copyright,  1907,  by  The  Phelps  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1908,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son 
Copyright,  1909,  by  The  Success  Company 


Published,  April,  1909 


The  reminiscences  of  boy  life  in  a  New  England 
seashore  village,  contained  in  this  volume,  originally 
appeared  as  follows  :  "Our  House,"  "Our  Oldest 
Inhabitant,"  "The  Old  Maids,"  and  "Teacher,"  in 
Collier's  Weekly ;  "The  Cape  Cod  Clambake,"  in 
Good  Housekeeping ;  "The  School  Picnic,"  in  Suc- 
cess; and  "A  Christmas  Memory,"  in  Country  Life 
in  America.  The  author  desires  to  thank  the  edi- 
tors of  these  periodicals  for  their  courteous  permis- 
sion to  republish. 


TO 

S.    E.    H. 

WHO   KNEW   AND   LOVED 

"OUR  HOUSE" 
AND   THOSE  WHO   DWELT   THEREIN 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

OUR  HOUSE 3 

A  CAPE  COD  CLAMBAKE         .....  29 

THE  OLD  MAIDS 57 

THE  SCHOOL  PICNIC 85 

OUR  OLDEST  INHABITANT in 

TEACHER 135 

A  CHRISTMAS  MEMORY 165 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PACE 

Good  morning,  Pashy.     How  d'ye  do,  Huldy? 
Nice   seasonable  weather  we're  having  ' ' 

Frontispiece 

'  I    was    courtin'    you    then,    Tempy.   .   .  .   Do 

you  remember?'"        .....       52 

'  Don't    talk    to    me    about    money    these    hard 

times!"1 120 

'He'll  be  awful  tickled  with  them  skates'"   .     182 


OUR   HOUSE 


OUR   HOUSE 

ONE  minute  to  twelve  by  the  eight-sided 
wooden  clock  on  the  wall  over  teacher's 
desk.  The  hot  forenoon  session  was  all  but 
over.  You  closed  your  geography  with  a  leaf 
turned  down  at  the  page  where  the  woodcut 
of  the  "  Palisades  of  the  Hudson  "  was  bor- 
dered by  the  penciled  gem : 

If  my  name  you  still  would  find, 
Look  on  page  149, 

and  slid  the  book  under  the  ink-smeared,  pin- 
scratched  lid  of  your  desk. 

Teacher  struck  the  little  bell  on  her  table. 
The  third  class  in  arithmetic,  which  had  been 
3 


Our  Village 

fighting  a  drawn  battle  with  common  frac- 
tions on  the  settees  at  the  rear  of  the  room,  re- 
turned to  its  seats  with  the  soft  "  pad  "  of 
bare  feet  and  the  squeaking  of  ungreased,  cop- 
per-toed boots.  "  Snuppy  "  Rogers,  who  had 
brought  a  turtle  to  school,  and  had  left  it  in 
his  desk,  reached  his  seat  just  in  time  to  pre- 
vent the  creature  from  crawling  out  and  tum- 
bling to  the  floor.  Snuppy  drew  a  breath  of 
relief  and  immured  the  captive  in  the  dun- 
geon of  his  jacket  pocket. 

Teacher  struck  her  bell  again.  The  last 
book  slammed  out  of  sight  and  the  school 
came  to  attention,  hands  behind  backs. 
"  Ting !  " — every  scholar  was  on  his  or  her 
feet.  "  Ting !  " — and  the  files  began  moving 
toward  the  doors,  girls  on  one  side  and  boys 
on  the  other,  marching  sedately  until  the 
threshold  was  crossed,  then  grabbing  hats  and 
caps  and  leaping  down  the  stairs  in  a  racket- 
ous  riot  that  awoke  old  Cap'n  Daniels,  asleep 
behind  the  tobacco  and  candy  show  case  in 
his  grocery,  dry  goods,  and  general  store 
across  the  road. 

Our  house  was  a  good  half  mile  from 
4 


Our  House 


school,  but  you  were  there  in  five  minutes. 
Going  to  school  —  oh,  that  was  different ! 
Sometimes  it  took  three  quarters  of  an  hour 
to  go  to  school ;  and  Sunday-school  about  the 
same.  But  when  a  boy  consumed  more  than 
five  minutes  in  getting  back  to  dinner  from 
either  place,  the  folks  appeared  suspicious  and 
asked  embarrassing  questions  concerning  his 
health  or  behavior. 

You  entered  our  house  by  the  side  door, 
of  course.  That  was  the  door  of  the  dining 
room,  and  it  had  wistaria  and  morning-glory 
vines  shading  the  latticed  porch  above  it,  and 
the  humming  birds  used  to  come  there  for 
honey.  You  saw  them  sometimes  when  you 
were  sitting  by  the  window,  and  were  obliged 
to  keep  very  still  or  else  be  asked  if  you  really 
were  learning  your  Sunday-school  lesson  or 
only  fooling.  You  seldom  saw  them  at  other 
times  because  you  didn't 
keep  still  long  enough. 

Though    you    entered 

our  house   by   the   side 

door,  there  was  a  front 

door  and  a  back   door. 

2  5 


Our  Village 

But  nobody  ever  went  in  at  the  front  door, 
except  the  new  minister,  maybe,  when  he 
made  his  first  call,  and  he  didn't  try  it  the 
second  time.  You  see,  the  hinges  of  the  front 
gate  had  remained  so  long  without  exercise, 
in  all  sorts  of  weather,  that  they  had  ac- 
quired chronic  "  rheumatics,"  and  groaned  and 
shrieked  agonized  protests  when  disturbed. 
And  the  box  hedges  each  side  of  the  front 
walk  were  so  very  puritanical  and  prim  that 
they  appeared  to  be  standing  parish  commit- 
tees investigating  one's  religious  opinions. 

"  Hum !  "  you  could  imagine  the  right-hand 
hedge  sniffing  as  the  new  divine  moved  up  the 
walk.  "  So  that's  the  fellow  they've  called,  is 
it?  Young  squirt,  isn't  he?  He'll  have  to 
grow  some  before  he  can  fill  old  Parson  Simp- 
kins'  shoes." 

"  I  should  think  so !  "  responded  the  left- 
hand  hedge.  "  Look  at  those  side  whiskers. 
And  I  don't  exactly  like  the  way  he's  dressed. 
Kind  of  worldly  —  kind  —  of  —  worldly.  I 
wouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  one  of  those  ad- 
vanced thinkers.  I  don't  believe  that's  the 
sort  of  minister  we  want." 
6 


Our  House 

And  the  big  shells  on  each  side  of  the  front 
steps  were  orthodox  and  "  sot  in  their  ways  '' 
.as  the  hedges.  And  the  bell  with  the  glass 
knob  announced  one's  timid  pull  with  such  a 
ponderous  "  Clank !  r-r-rattle !  DING  DONG  ! 
DING  DONG!  DING  DONG  !  DING  DONG!  DING  — DING  — 
DING!" 

No,  the  front  door  wasn't  popular ;  the  very 
good  and  intensely  respectable  seldom  are, 
I'm  afraid.  And  the  back  door  was  rather 
out  of  the  way  and  led  to  the  wash  shed — 
which  meant  tubs  to  be  pumped  full,  whether 
you  wanted  to  or  not — and  the  wood  box  and 
kindling  bins  and  other  unpleasant  reminders. 
Confound  a  wood  box,  anyway!  Most  pro- 
voking things  they  are.  Never  saw  one  yet 
that  wasn't  empty  when  you  wanted  to  play 
ball  or  go  swimming  with  the  gang,  nor  full 
when  you  ought  to  be  studying  and  were 
really  hungry  for  an  excuse  not  to. 

But  the  wash  shed  wasn't  altogether  bad. 
Ours  had  a  flat  tin  roof,  you  remember,  and 
the  rain  made  music  on  it,  a  pattery,  cozy, 
"  comfy "  sort  of  music,  not  shivery  and 
dreadful,  like  the  song  the  winter  wind  sang 

7 


Our  Village 

at  night  about  your  bedroom  windows.  Not 
that  kind  at  all.  And  the  flat  shed  roof  was  a 
bully  place  to  play,  being  high  and  dangerous 
and  generally  delightful.  It  was  from  the 
corner  of  that  roof  that  you  flung  to  the  breeze 
the  white  cotton  flag  with  your  initial,  in 
black,  gummed  upon  it — just  the  kind  of  flag 
displayed  by  Captain  Nemo  in  "  Twenty 
Thousand  Leagues  Under  the  Sea." 

You  lowered  Spotty,  the  tortoise-shell  cat, 
from  that  roof  in  a  basket  the  day  after  your 
return  from  the  visit  to  Boston.  You  were 
playing  elevator;  but  Spotty,  who  apparently 
did  not  care  for  modern  conveniences,  yowled 
nervously  during  the  descent  and  jumped 
when  six  feet  from  the  ground. 

That  wash  shed  was  where  you  kept  the 
pair  of  tame  rabbits  your  Aunt  Hannah  gave 
you  for  a  birthday  present.  You  didn't  keep 
them  there  long,  however.  They  were  in  a 
wooden  box  with  slats  across  its  open  side, 
and,  during  the  day  and  night  when  you  and 
the  family  drove  to  Harniss  and  stayed  over 
at  Aunt  Hannah's  and  Uncle  Laban's,  those 
8 


Our  House 

white  rabbits  gnawed  out  of  the  box  and 
through  the  door  into  the  kitchen.  When  you 
returned  you  found  them  beginning  opera- 
tions on  the  door  to  the  dining  room.  In  a 
week  they  would  have  had  a  subway  from  one 
end  of  the  house  to  the  other. 

Spotty  didn't  approve  of  the  rabbits.  She 
didn't  approve  of  dogs,  either.  Her  rather  too 
frequent  kittens  were  domiciled  in  a  carpet- 
lined  box  by  the  kindling  bin,  and  you  let  a 
dog  so  much  as  show  his  nose  inside  that 
woodshed  door  and —  Whew! 

The  man  who  drove  the  butcher  cart  owned 
a  big,  no-account  dog  that  considered  himself 
"  some  punkins."  While  his  master  was 
weighing  a  pound  and  a  quarter  of  steak,  top 
of  the  round,  on  the  scales  at  the  back  of  the 
cart,  Prince — that  was  the  dog's  name — wan- 
dered into  our  yard  on  a  foraging  expedition. 
He  approached  the  back  door,  tail  wagging 
and  nose  working  expectantly. 

"  Nice  ould  Prince !  "  called  Bridget  Kelly. 
She  was  our  washerwoman,  bless  her  Irish 
heart,  and  she  liked  dogs  and  boys.  "  Come 
here,  ould  feller,  and  see  what  I've  got  for  yez." 

9 


Our  Village 

Prince  came.  He  scented  a  bone,  no  doubt, 
and  he  might  have  got  it  if  Spotty  hadn't  been 
on  deck.  As  it  was,  Prince's  brindle  shoul- 
ders had  scarcely  pushed  themselves  past  the 
jamb  when  a  streak  of  tortoise-shell  light- 
.  ning  struck  between  those  shoulders  and 
stayed  there.  The  air  was  filled  with  cat  and 
dog  profanity  and  tufts  of  brindled  hair. 
Prince  reached  the  road  in  record  time.  Per- 
haps he  has  stopped  running  by  now — he  was 
an  old  dog  and  this  happened  a  good  many 
years  ago.  Spotty  dismounted  at  the  gate, 
and  sauntered  back  to  her  kittens,  brush-tailed 
and  fiery-eyed,  but  as  dignified  as  ever.  The 
only  time  that  cat's  dignity  was  shaken  was 
when  she  attempted  to  walk  across  the  newly 
varnished  oilcloth  covering  the  kitchen  floor. 
She  made  the  transit  finally,  but  it  was  a  tacky 
business.  For  the  rest  of  that  day  she  licked 
varnish  off  her  paws  and  made  disgusted 
faces.  She  seemed  to  think  it  a  low-down, 
vulgar  trick  to  play  on  a  lady  and  a  mother. 

The  kitchen  had  its  attractions — for  you, 
I  mean.    There  was  the  pump  and  the  cocoa- 
nut  dipper,  and  the  cool,  spicy-smelling  closet 
IO 


with  the  cooky  jar — at  our  house  it  was  a 
mammoth  affair  which  father  had  brought 
home  from  sea  filled  with  tamarind  preserve — 
under  the  shelf.  There  was  the  big  range — 
nobody  ever  called  it  anything  but  "  cook- 
stove,"  though — and  when  mother  or  grand- 
ma made  gingerbread  or  doughnuts  you  could 
generally  count  on  a  gingerbread  horse  or  a 
doughnut  man  to  emerge  from  the  pan  or 
kettle,  hot  and  brown  and  deliciously  indi- 
gestible. 

These,  however,  were  but  between-meal  re- 
freshments. The  dining  room  was  the  head- 
quarters of  the  commissary  department,  and 
the  dining  room  at  our  house  was  big  and 
light  and  homey.  There  were  the  pictures 
on  the  walls,  "  Signing  the  Declaration," 
"  Rock  of  Ages,"  "  From  Shore  to  Shore  " 
— you  remember  that  ?  A  boat  load  of  people, 
children  in  the  bow,  ma  and  pa  amidships, 
and  grandpa  and  grandma  in  the  stern,  being 
rowed  from  a  little  port  straight  out  to  sea, 
apparently.  The  children  looked  happy,  but 
the  old  folks  were  pretty  blue.  Who  wouldn't 
II 


Our  Village 

be?  Starting  to  cross  the  ocean  in  a  boat  no 
bigger  than  a  dory,  and  crowded  full  at  that! 

The  west  window  of  the  dining  room  was 
filled  with  plants  in  pots  and  on  wire  racks. 
Geraniums,  callas,  fuchsias,  begonias,  ivies,  a 
carrot  scooped  out,  filled  with  water,  and  hung 
in  the  sun  by  strings — that  was  your  contri- 
bution to  the  collection — a  sensitive  plant  that 
curled  up  when  touched,  as  if  it  was  ticklish, 
and  a  lot  more.  And  at  least  one  canary  in 
a  gilt  cage.  Snuppy's  folks  had  a  parrot,  but 
it  couldn't  sing — only  screeched. 

Under  the  floor  of  that  dining  room  was  the 
cistern,  and  on  rainy  days,  if  you  put  your  ear 
to  the  floor,  you  could  hear  the  water  running 
in.  Sometimes  they  took  up  the  carpet,  and 
there  was  a  trapdoor  through  which  Ezra 
Bean,  a  much  envied  person  with  whiskers  and 
high  rubber  boots,  descended  to  clean  the  cis- 
tern. A  good  manly  job  was  Ezra's,  and  one 
that  you  would  cheerfully  have  attempted  your- 
self if  the  'fraid-cats  would  only  have  let  you. 

The  meals  served  in  that  dining  room 
were —  Oh,  say !  Huckleberry  dumpling  with 
cream  sauce !  Pop-overs  and  riz  biscuits ! 
12  , 


Our  House 


Barberry  and  sweet-apple  preserve!  Black- 
berry pie !  Baked  bluefish  with  drawn  butter ! 
Um!  Um!  It  was  there  that,  for  once  in 
your  life,  you  had  all  the  watermelon  you 
wanted  at  one  time.  All  you  wanted  for  a 
week.  You  felt  the  way  grandpa  in  the 
"  Shore  to  Shore  "  picture  looked. 

When  supper  was  over,  that  everlasting 
wood  box  filled,  and  the  other  chores  done, 
you  and  the  folks  went  into  the  "  settin'  room." 
Not  the  library ;  of  course  not.  The  library 
was  down  the  road  next  to  the  Congrega- 
tionalist  church.  It  was  run  by  the  Ladies' 
Social  Society,  and,  if  your  ma  paid  fifty 
cents  a  year  and  didn't  want  all  the  books 
herself,  you  could  go  there  and  get  "  The 
Boy  Hunters,"  "  The  Young  Yagers,"  "  Frank 
on  a  Gunboat,"  "Watch 
and  Wait,"  and  a  whole 
shelf  ful  more.  People 
didn't  have  libraries  in 
houses — no  such  luck. 
That  room  where  you  went 
after  supper  was  the  "  set- 
tin'  room." 

13 


Our  Village 

There  was  a  table  in  the  settin'  room,  a 
round  table  with  a  lamp  on  it.  The  lamp  had 
a  shade  made  of  paper  and  wire,  and  there 
were  pictures  printed  on  the  paper  which 
showed  fine  against  the  light.  There  were 
pictures  on  the  walls,  too,  principally  paint- 
ings of  ships  which  your  father  and  grand- 
father had  commanded,  or  perhaps  a  spatter- 
work  "  God  Bless  Our  Home "  motto,  or  a 
worsted  thing  called  a  sampler,  made  by 
grandma  when  she  was  little. 

The  settin'  room  was  good  in  summer,  of 
course,  but  it  was  better  in  winter,  with  the 
tall,  "  air-tight "  stove  roaring  hot,  the  cat 
purring  beside  it,  mother  in  the  rocker  mend- 
ing stockings — there  always  were  stockings 
to  be  mended  at  our  house,  and  nobody  could 
ever  mend  them  right  but  mother — grand- 
ma knitting  mittens,  father — if  he  happened 
to  be  home  from  a  voyage — reading  the 
Item,  and  you  curled  up  on  the  hassock  or 
cricket,  looking  over  the  back  numbers  of 
Godey's  Lady's  Book.  And  outside  the  hail 
or  snow  beat  with  spiteful  and  envious  fin- 
gers against  the  panes,  and  the  wind  screeched 
14 


vain  threats  concerning  what  it  would  do  to 
you  if  you  only  dast  to  come  out  and  face  it. 

That  air-tight  stove  was  a  puzzle  to  you 
when  you  were  very  small  and  didn't  know 
what  was  what  concerning  things.  You  al- 
ways hung  your  stocking  beside  it  on  Christ- 
mas eve,  and  on  Christmas  morning  Santa 
had  been  there  and  stuffed  that  stocking  full. 
He  came  down  the  chimney,  of  course — but 
how? 

It  was  a  miracle,  certainly,  but  now  that 
you  are  older  you  realize  that  there  were  far 
greater  miracles  worked  on  those  Christmas 
eves.  Our  house  then  was  a  wonder  shop  of 
miracles,  and  love  and  self-denial  were  its 
fairy  proprietors.  If  you  could  only  step 
back,  through  forty  years  or  so,  and  be  given 
a  precious  moment  in  which  to  whisper  thanks 
in  the  ears  long  shut  to  your  whisperings !  If 
only  you  might  enter  that  old  settin'  room, 
find  it  tenanted  as  it  used  to  be,  and  tell 
them  of  your  understanding  and  your  grati- 
tude— ask  their  forgiveness  for  petulance  and 
fretful  fault-finding!  If  only —  But  there! 
15 


Our  Village 

it's  nine  o'clock — bedtime  at  our  house.  We 
must  go  upstairs. 

The  brass  hand  lamp  threw  queer,  homely 
shadows  of  yourself  on  the  walls  of  the  stair- 
way. And  the  stairs  themselves  were  narrow 
and  steep  as  the  shrouds  of  a  ship  or  the  lad- 
der to  heaven.  Perhaps  they  were  built  that 
way  purposely  by  great-grandfather,  who  was 
an  ancient  mariner  and  a  deacon  of  the 
church.  At  any  rate,  to  tumble  down  their 
almost  perpendicular  length  was  as  easy,  and 
almost  as  disastrous,  as  to  fall  from  grace. 
You  did  it  once,  in  your  baby  days,  with  a 
china  rabbit  in  your  hand,  and,  with  the  blood 
streaming  from  a  cut  in  your  cheek,  an- 
nounced that  the  "  wabbit  was  all  bwoke  and 
you  were  bwoke,  too."  This  was  a  family 
tradition  in  our  house ;  so  also  was  the  tale  of 
grandfather's  fall,  on  a  Sunday,  when  he  had 
his  new  go-to-meetin'  suit  on.  The  suit  was 
split  in  conspicuous  and  sundry  places,  and 
grandpa  said 

The  little  room  with  the  funny  window 
under  the  eaves  was  your  room.  The  bed 
with  the  painted  flowers  on  its  headboard  was 
16 


Our  House 


your  bed.     The  washstand  with 

the  pitcher  and  bowl  was  yours. 

Through  that  window  on  shiny 

nights  the  moonbeams  streamed 

and  made  queer,  moving  patterns 

on    the    straw    matting    or   the 

braided  rag  mat.    Through  that 

window    you    were    once    very 

nearly  yanked  bodily  by  one  big  toe.     It  was 

the  night  before  the  Fourth,  and  you  had  tied 

a  string  to  the  toe  and  thrown  the  end  out 

of  the  window  for  Snuppy  to  pull,  when  he 

should  come  at  two  o'clock,  and  wake  you 

up.     It  woke  you ;  you  remember  the  waking 

distinctly. 

Through  that  window,  too,  the  sound  of  the 
distant  surf  used  to  drone  on  summer  even- 
ings. Against  its  little  panes  the  leaves  of 
the  "  black  heart  "  cherry  tree  scratched  whis- 
peringly  when  the  breeze  stirred  them.  Its 
casement  rattled  defiant  drumbeats  in  answer 
to  the  battle  cry  of  the  winter  gale. 

On  such  a  night,  when  the  water  in  the 
pitcher  was  freezing,  and  the  snow  sifting  un- 
der the  warped  sash,  mother  used  to  come  tip- 


Our  Village 

toeing  in  to  see  if  you  were  well  tucked  up. 
The  lamp  was  in  her  hand  and  her  hair 
sparkled  and  glistened  in  the  shine  of  it.  And 
when  she  saw  you  were  awake  she  smiled  and 
bent  over  and  .  .  . 

The  next  room  was  her  room — mother's 
room.  Through  the  open  door  we  see  the 
little  table  by  the  window,  the  table  with 
father's  picture  and  the  vase  of  pansies  on  it. 
There  is  the  Testament  with  the  bead-worked 
bookmark.  And  the  high,  old-fashioned  bu- 
reau with  its  sweet,  clean  smell  of  lavender; 
the  work  basket  and  the  rocking-chair  with 
the  figured  chintz  cushion ;  the  rickety  foot- 
stool, made  by  you  with  your  first  box  of  tools 
— a  wabbly,  unreliable  piece  of  furniture,  but 
to  her  more  precious  than  rare  old  Chippen- 
dale, because  you  made  it. 

The  remarkable  feature  of  grandma's  room 
was  the  long,  low,  dark  closet  under  the  eaves, 
a  poky,  weird  tunnel,  which,  seen  dimly  by 
lamplight,  was  full  of  old  bonnets  and  trunks 
and  shadows.  There  was  the  umbrella  with 
the  carved  ivory  handle,  which  Uncle  Laban 
brought  from  Calcutta  ever  so  many  years 
18 


Our  House 

ago.  It  was  much  too  nice  to  use,  so  grand- 
ma kept  it  carefully  rolled  up  in  its  case. 
When  she  died,  its  silk  covering  was  found  to 
have  rotted  with  age  until  every  crease  was  a 
line  of  emptiness.  The  little  armchair  used  by 
Aunt  Jane  when  she  was  a  baby  was  in  that 
closet.  So  was  her  big  china  doll  with  the 
beady  black  eyes  and  black  plaster  hair ;  it  was 
dressed  like  Lucy  in  the  Rollo  books — low- 
necked,  sleeveless  gown,  pantalets,  and  slip- 
pers, all  complete.  Grandpa's  Sunday  tall  hat 
hung  above  it  on  a  peg.  To  you  that  closet 
was  a  sort  of  family  vault.  My!  how  dismal 
and  dead  and  lonesome  it  looked — and  smelled. 
The  "  company  "  who  visited  our  house  al- 
ways had  good  times — during  the  day.  When 
night  came  they  had  your  sincere  pity.  You 
knew  they  were  entombed  alive  in  that  icy 
sepulcher,  labeled  "  The  Best  Spare  Room." 
They  were  sunk  fathoms  deep  in  a  sea  of 
feather  bed,  and  kept  down  by  counterpane, 
blanket,  "log-cabin"  quilt,  "rising-sun"  quilt, 
"  crazy  "  quilt,  "  diamond  "  quilt,  and  a  half 
dozen  other  quilts,  the  names  of  which  are 
forgotten.  Every  time  one  of  the  family 

19 


Our  Village 

"  drew  "  a  quilt  at  the  church  fair,  they  put 
it  on  the  bed  in  the  spare  room.  They  called 
them  "  comforters  " — this  was  sarcasm. 

Under  the  feather  bed  was  a  cornhusk 
mattress  that  rustled  like  a  rat's  nest  in  a 
pile  of  shavings.  And  under  that  was  the 
corded  framework  of  the  bedstead,  each  cord 
with  a  separate  squeak,  and  the  whole  af- 
fair sagging  down  in  the  middle  like  an 
old-fashioned  hammock.  A  night  in  that 
bed  was  distinctly  not  a  restful  experience, 
though  it  did  have  its  value  as  a  means 
of  exercise.  The  sunken  center  grew  warm, 
after  you  had  hung  in  it  a  while,  but  it 
was  as  cramping  as  a  meal  bag  and  when 
you  climbed  the  heights .  at  each  side,  they 
were  cold  as  snow  banks  and  you  had  to  cling 
to  the  rails  to  keep  from  sliding  down  again. 
Cousin  Alpheus,  who  weighed  two  hundred 
and  eighty,  slept  in  that  bed  once.  Next 
morning  he  declared  he  was  all  bruises,  be- 
cause every  time  he  fell  asleep  and  "  let  go 
his  holt "  he  rolled  downhill  and  hit  the  floor 
in  the  middle. 

20 


Our  House 

One  of  the  choice  bits  in  the  spare  room  was 
the  "  barrel  armchair."  Uncle  Henry  —  the 
one  who  was  drowned  at  sea — made  it  himself 
"  out  of  his  own  head  "  and  a  receipt  in  the 
paper.  He  took  a  flour  barrel  and  sawed  it 
out  and  put  a  seat  in  it  and  covered  it  with 
nice  gay-colored  stuff  and  put  rockers  on  it. 
When  you  sat  in  it  the  rounded  back  pushed 
your  shoulders  together  and  "  hunched  "  you 
over  in  a  heap.  Grandpa  sat  in  it  once ;  then 
he  took  it  up  to  the  spare  room,  along  with 
the  dressing  table  made  of  a  dry-goods  box 
covered  with  dotted  muslin. 

The  walls  of  the  spare  room  were  cheerfully 
adorned  with  pictures  and  things.  A  wreath 
from  Cousin  Elijah's  coffin  dipped  in  wax  and 
inclosed  in  a  walnut  case;  his  name,  a  lock 
of  his  hair,  and  the  date  of  his  death  in  the 
center  of  the  wreath.  A  shell-worked  basket 
in  a  deep,  shell-covered  frame;  some  of  the 
shells  had  fallen  out  and  the  plaster  of  Paris 
showed.  An  oil  painting  of  great-grandfather, 
painted  by  Asaph  Doane,  the  sign  painter; 
Asaph  had  unusual  talent — everybody  said  so, 
and  the  portrait  proved  it.  There  were  other 
3  21 


Our  Village 

portraits,  too,  mainly  daguerreotypes,  with 
rings  and  necklaces  realistically  "  put  in " 
with  gilt  paint.  At  Snuppy's  house  they  had 
a  framed  set  of  coffin  plates — relics  of  family 
funerals — hung  in  the  spare  room.  This 
added  an  appropriate  touch  to  the  apartment. 
The  front  stairs  of  our  house  were  as 
steep  as  the  everyday  set  which  caused  grand- 
pa's accident.  They  led  down  to  the  dark, 
musty-smelling  front  hall,  with  the  mahog- 
any hat  rack  and  the  model  of  the  full- 
rigged  ship  set  in  a  sea  of  painted  putty. 
From  this  hall  a  door  opened  into —  Hush! 
be  reverent,  please ;  this  isn't  Sunday,  and  we 
have  no  right  to  be  here — into  the  PARLOR.  It 
was  always  thus  capitalized  at  our  house. 

You  got  into  the  PARLOR  so  seldom  that 
your  memory  of  it  ought  to  be  hazy — but  it 
isn't.  A  man  who  has  been  in  jail  but  once 
doubtless  remembers  it  perfectly,  and  you 
were  in  the  parlor  twenty  times  at  least. 
Once  at  Mary's  wedding,  once  when  the  min- 
ister called,  once  at  Cousin  Elijah's  funeral, 
and,  oh,  yes — once  or  twice  at  house-cleaning 

22 


Our  House 

times.  You  were  driven  out  promptly  then 
by  mother  and  grandma,  who,  in  long  aprons 
and  in  sweeping  caps,  were  officiating  as  high 
priests  in  this  holy  of  holies.  But  you  re- 
member the  "  haircloth  set  "  and  the  marble- 
topped  center  table,  and  the  wainscot,  and  the 
wax  fruit  on  the  mantel,  and  the  alabaster 
candlesticks,  and  the  melodeon,  of  course! 

All  the  melodeons  you  have  heard  since 
sounded  like  the  patent  rocker — only  worse. 
But  the  one  at  our  house,  as  you  remember  it, 
was  different  somehow.  In  the  old  days,  on 
a  rare  Sunday  afternoon  when  Uncle  La- 
ban's  folks  drove  over  from  Harniss,  and 
Cousin  Mary  put  her  feet  on  the  carpet-cov- 
ered pedals  and  opened  the  book  of  "  Gospel 
Hymns,  No.  i,"  with  father  and  mother  and 
grandma  and  Uncle  Labe  and  Aunt  Hannah 
and  Ed  and  Tom  and  you,  all  standing  up  to 
sing.  .  .  .  Well,  have  you  ever  heard  such 
music  as  the  old  melodeon  made  then?  Have 
you  ever  heard  "  In  the  Sweet  By  and  By  " 
sung  like  that  since?  Or  will  you  ever  hear 
it  so  sung  again? 

"  We  shall  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore." 
23 


Our  Village 

How  many  of  those  who 
sung  those  words  have  jour- 
neyed to  that  shore ! 

You  went  back  to  our  house 
last  summer.  But  somehow 
it  wasn't  our  house  that  you 
found.  The  black  heart  cherry 
tree  had  grown  old  and  been 
cut  down.  The  post-office 
building,  where  grandpa  used 
to  sort  the  mail,  and  you  used  to  watch 
him  and  wish  that  you  might  be  a  real 
live  postmaster  some  day,  had  been  moved 
away.  They  told  you  it  was  a  blacksmith's 
shop  now.  You  took  their  word  for  it ;  you 
had  no  desire  to  investigate. 

There  was  a  wide  porch  shading  the  parlor 
windows.  And  not  only  were  the  blinds  of 
those  windows  thrown  back,  but  the  windows 
themselves  were  open.  And  the  front  door — 
the  sacred  front  door — was  open,  too,  and 
through  it  strolled  a  flannel-shirted  summer 
boarder  smoking  a  pipe.  A  pipe  in  the  PAR- 
LOR at  our  house !  No  wonder  the  box  hedges 
had  grown  bald  and  gray!  No  wonder  the 
24 


Our  House 

place  which  used  to  look  so  big  and  tall  and 
fine  now  seemed  so  shabby  and  mean.  No, 
our  house  is  our  house  no  longer. 

And  yet,  at  night,  as  you  strolled  by  it,  with 
the  scent  of  the  lilacs  hanging  in  the  heavy, 
moist  air,  and  the  surf  sounding  as  it  used  to 
sound,  far  off  and  lazy,  and  the  charitable 
dark  covering  the  changes  of  years,  then — 
then  it  almost  seemed  .  .  . 

Almost — yes;  but  not  quite.  Never  again 
quite.  The  loved  faces  have  vanished  and  the 
loved  voices  are  silent.  And,  as  you  longingly 
looked  and  listened,  the  PARLOR  windows 
lighted  up  and  some  one  began  singing  "  Poor 
John  "  to  a  banjo  accompaniment.  And  sud- 
denly you  remembered  that  it  was  ten  o'clock 
and  your  wife  had  warned  you  that  the  night 
air  was  bad  for  your  rheumatism. 


A   CAPE   COD   CLAMBAKE 


A    CAPE    COD    CLAMBAKE 

WHY,  of  course !  You  know  all  about  it. 
It  was  such  a  lark !  The  De  Lanceys 
invited  you  and  you  went  with  Clarence  and 
mamma  in  the  auto.  The  tables  were  arranged 
on  the  verandas  of  the  De  Lancey  "  beach 
house,"  and  the  Van  Snubs  were  there,  and 
the  Bonds,  and,  oh,  ever  so  many  more.  The 
lawns  were  so  green  and  velvety,  and  the 
flower  beds  so  trim  and  exquisite,  and  the 
Sound  so  blue  and  lovely. 

The  De  Lanceys  are  the  nicest  people !    Ex- 
clusive, of  course,  but —     If  it  hadn't  been 
for  the   "  No   trespassing "   signs,   and   those 
horrid    excursion   boats    whistling   back    and 
29 


Our  Village 

forth,  you  might  have  imagined  yourself 
miles  away  from  anything  coarse  or  common. 
And  the  De  Lancey  silver!  And  the  little 
necks !  And  the  clam  bouillon !  And 

Yes.  Well,  that  isn't  the  kind  of  clambake 
I'm  talking  about.  And  I  don't  mean  the 
other  kind,  either  —  where  you  pay  seventy- 
five  cents  for  a  dingy  slip  of  green  pasteboard 
and  elbow  yourself  into  a  pavilion  roofed 
with  dirty  canvas,  and  fight  for  a  wooden 
chair  at  a  table  covered  with  a  soiled  cloth, 
and  have  a  dish  of  cold  shells,  filled  with 
leather  and  sand,  thrown  at  you  by  a  husky 
pugilist  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  while  the  fakirs 
yell  and  the  merry-go-round  toots  and  Mrs. 
Solomons  argues  shrilly  that  little  Jacob  ought 
to  eat  free  because  he  is  only  "  goin'  on  six, 
s'elp  me,"  and —  No,  I  should  say  not. 

The  clambake  I  mean  comes  into  being 
somewhat  after  this  fashion:  You  are  sum- 
mering, let  us  say,  at  a  village  "  down  on  the 
Cape,"  a  lazy  old  village  where  the  houses 
and  roads  and  sails  are  white,  and  the  trees 
and  grass  and  shutters  and  city  boarders 
green,  and  the  sea  and  sky  and  the  natives — 

30 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

most  of  them — true  blue.  And  you  have 
bathed  and  fished  and  sailed  and  smoked  and 
loafed — have  done  almost  everything,  in  fact, 
except  work.  There  arc  people  on  Cape  Cod 
who  work,  but  the  average  "  summerer  " — no 
matter  what  grim  resolutions  he  may  have 
subscribed  to  before  leaving  home — is  not  one 
of  them. 

So,  one  morning,  as  you  are  industriously 
filling  your  pipe — I  am  now  supposing  you  to 
be  a  member  of  the  tobacco  blessed  sex — on 
the  porch,  your  wife  emerges  from  the  cot- 
tage with  a  wistful,  unsatisfied  look  in  her 
eye,  and  observes :  "  Oh,  dear !  I  do  wish  we 
might  have  a  real,  old-fashioned  clambake." 

Whereupon  you  sit  up  in  the  hammock, 
choke  down  your  excitement,  and  reply  in  an 
uninterested  tone :  "  Clambake,  my  dear  ? 
Why,  we  had  clams  for  dinner  only  yester- 
day." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  they  taste  so  different 
baked  out  of  doors.  I  mean  a  real  clambake 
on  the  beach.  One  with  corn  and  potatoes 
and  all  the  '  fixin's,'  such  as  we  used  to  have 
when  father  was  alive." 
31 


Our  Village 

Now,  your  wife  is,  like  your- 
self, a  Cape  Codder  born.  She 
used  to  live  in  the  old  Baker 
house  on  the  "  lower  road  " — the 
one  occupied  at  present  by  that 
Portuguese  family — and  her  father 
Ezra  Baker,  and  he  was  the  great- 
est "  cut  up  "  for  a  grown  man  that  ever — 
why,  he  just  had  to  be  a  Universalist.  No 
Methodist,  in  those  days,  could  go  on  picnics 
and  get  up  hay  rides  and  "  times  "  as  he  did 
every  week  day  of  his  "  shore  leaves,"  and 
retain  a  regular  standing  in  the  church.  No, 
sir !  One  couldn't  enjoy  life  like  that  and  be 
godly.  As  old  Deacon  Bradley  said  once  in 
prayer  meeting :  "  We  have  them  amongst  us, 
O  Lord,  who  imagine  this  airthly  pilgrimage 
be  a  vain  thing.  But  let  'em  beware  and  flee 
to  the  ark  of  safety,  while  there  is  yet  time. 
There'll  be  no  straw-ridin'  and  didoes  over 

there.     Let  'em,  I  say,  take  heed  to " 

Just  here  your  wife  interrupts  your  medi- 
tations.   She  says: 

"The  children  would  enjoy  it  so." 
Bless  the  children !    They  are  the  most  con- 
32-   . 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

venient  excuses  in  creation.  Probably,  if  it 
were  not  for  them,  you  wouldn't  get  to  the 
zoological  gardens  or  the  aquarium  or  the 
fairy  play  oftener  than  once  a  year  or  so. 
And  as  for  the  circus — but  that's  an  old 
story. 

So  you  look  becomingly  benign  and  paren- 
tal and  observe: 

"  That's  so.  It  would  please  them,  wouldn't 
it?  I'll  step  over  and  see  Jones." 

Jones  has  a  cottage  down  the  road  a  bit, 
and  you  find  him  sitting  on  the  porch  and 
looking  resentfully  at  the  lawn  mower.  He 
has  firmly  resolved  to  cut  the  front  yard  that 
morning,  and  is  therefore  glad  to  see  you.  If 
the  grass  isn't  cut  while  the  dew  is  on  it,  the 
cutting  must  go  over  until  the  next  day.  You 
obligingly  remain  until  the  dew  is  all  gone 
and  he  is  then  in  a  condition  to  agree  to  any- 
thing. Besides,  hasn't  he  children,  too? 

Yes,  indeed,  he  will  be  glad  to  help  get  up 
a  clambake.  So  will  the  Smiths  and  the  Rob- 
insons. Therefore,  so  much  being  decided 
upon,  you  repair  to  Uncle  Seth's  to  consult 
concerning  tides,  weather,  and  the  like. 

33 


Our  Village 

You  couldn't  have  a  clambake  without  Un- 
cle Seth.  Nor  without  Aunt  Tempy,  either, 
for  that  matter.  They  live  on  the  "  lower 
road,"  too,  and  Uncle  Seth  was  Cap'n  Ezra's 
second  cousin. 

Aunt  Tempy  won't  shake  hands  because  it 
is  baking  day  and  her  hands  are  all  flour,  but 
she  says  Uncle  Seth  is  out  weeding  the  cran- 
berry swamp  and  that  he'll  be  "  real  tickled  " 
to  see  you.  So  to  the  cranberry  swamp  you 
go  and  find  Uncle  Seth  on  his  knees.  He 
looks  from  the  rear  to  be  mainly  whiskers 
and  straw  hat ;  but  between  the  whiskers 
and  the  hat  brim  is  a  weather-beaten,  tanned 
old  face  that  wrinkles  into  a  smile  of  wel- 
come. 

"Clambake?"  says  Uncle  Seth.  "Well,  I 
declare,  I  dunno.  There's  precious  nigh  a 
fortn't's  work  on  this  swamp,  and  my  hayin' 
ought  to  be  done  besides.  I  swan,  seems  's 
if  we'd  had  so  much  wet  weather  lately  that 
I  ain't  had  a  chance  to  do  nothin'  scarcely. 
Yus,  yus;  I'd  like  to  go  fust  rate,  but  I  de- 
clare I'm  'fraid  I  can't  spare  the  time." 

You  suggest  that  it  would  please  the  chil- 
34 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

dren.  Uncle  Seth  is  an 
old  fish,  but  he  rises  to 
the  bait. 

"  Yus,  yus,"  he  says. 
"  Twould  suit^hem,  I 
don't  doubt.  Well,  I 

dunno.  When  d'you  cal'late  to  have  it?  Oh, 
'most  any  day's  all  right  this  time  of  year. 
Let's  go  up  to  the  house  and  find  out  about 
the  tides." 

The  "  Old  Farmer's  Almanac "  hangs  on 
the  nail  behind  the  "  settin'-room  "  door.  It 
is  dogs'  eared  and  crumpled,  although  but 
seven  or  eight  months  old.  Uncle  Seth  wipes 
his  "  nigh-to  "  spectacles  and  wets  his  thumb. 

"  Hum,"  he  says,  turning  the  leaves  with 
the  wet  thumb.  "  Let's  see.  To-day's  the  four- 
teenth, ain't  it?  High  tide  to-day  at  three. 
That  makes  it  low  water  at  nine.  Day  after 
to-morrow  it's  low  at  eleven  or  thereabouts. 
How'd  day  after  to-morrow  suit  ye?" 

It  suits  you,  and  you  so  affirm.     But  Uncle 
Seth's  conscience   still   troubles   him.     There 
is  that  cranberry  bog  and  that  hay.     Aunt 
Tempy  comes  to  the  rescue. 
35 


Our  Village 

"  Oh,  go  'long,  Seth !  "  she  urges.  "  You 
ain't  had  a  day  off,  I  dunno  when.  One  good 
time  won't  put  you  in  the  poorhouse.  I'd  like 
a  clambake  fust  rate.  My !  my !  what  a  lot  we 
used  to  have  when  Ezry  was^alive  and  home 
from  sea.  That's  right.  He'll  go.  I'll  make 
him.  Tell  the  children  I'll  have  some  apple 
puffs  ready." 

A  clambake  wouldn't  be  a  clambake  with- 
out Aunt  Tempy's  apple  puffs.  You  carry 
the  good  news  home,  and  are  received  like 
a  conquering  hero.  The  children  proceed 
to  behave  like  small  imps  and  your  wife 
wears  a  beatific  smile.  Jones  comes  over  to 
say  that  Robinson  has  a  cousin  from  Buffalo 
visiting  him  who  has  never  eaten  a  clam  in 
his  life,  and  doesn't  know  whether  he'll  like 
them  or  not.  However,  he'll  risk  the  experi- 
ment. 

Next  day  the  sky  is  overcast  and  cloudy 
and  the  gloom  tlnereof  descends  upon  the 
household.  The  children  run  to  you  and  their 
mother  at  five-minute  intervals  demanding  to 
know  if  it  is  "  going  to  clear  off."  Jones 
comes  down  from  the  post  office  at  noon  with 
36 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

the  Boston  daily  paper,  and  the  Government's 
hired  prophets  cheer  you  with:  "  Weather  for 
New  England,  Thursday:  showers  and  fresh 
easterly  winds."  Robinson  and  the  Buffalo 
cousin — whose  name,  by  the  way,  is  Brown — 
drop  in  after  dinner  to  remark  that  they  are 
"afraid  it's  all  off."  At  last,  in  desperation, 
you  go  down  to  the  "  lower  road  "  and  Uncle 
Seth. 

Uncle  Seth  gets  up  from  the  supper  table 
and  comes  out  into  the  yard.  With  shirt- 
sleeved  arms  akimbo  he  stands  and  gazes  at 
the  sky,  at  the  western  horizon,  and  at  the 
weather  vane  on  the  barn.  Then  he  makes 
proclamation  as  follows : 

"  Wall,  I  dunno.  Looks  kind  of  how-come- 
you-so-now,  don't  it?  Depends  on  how  the 
wind  holds.  It's  blowed  from  the  sou'east  all 
day,  but  seems  to  be  cantin'  'round  more  to 
the  south'ard.  If  she  hauls  'round  to  the  west 
more,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  faired  off  by 
day.  Good  no'thwest  wind's  what  I'd  like  to 
see.  There  was  spider  webs  on  the  grass  this 
mornin'  and,  gin'rally  speakin',  you  don't  see 
them  in  a  spell  of  real  bad  weather.  I  kind 
4  37 


Our  Village 

of  cal'late  she'll  haul  'round.  Anyway,  we 
won't  say  die  yet." 

That's  the  kind  of  weather  prophet  for  you. 
You  return  home  feeling  that  if  the  weather 
next  day  should  be  bad  it  won't  be  Uncle 
Seth's  fault.  He  has  done  his  best. 

And,  sure  enough,  next  morning  it  has 
"  faired  off."  The  wind  has  "  hauled  'round  " 
to  a  little  north  of  west  and  the  bay  is  a  bright 
sapphire  blue,  sprinkled  with  flakes  of  white. 
You  harness  the  horse  into  the  "  democrat " 
and  help  your  wife  in.  The  children  and  the 
lunch  baskets  are  aboard  long  ago. 

The  Joneses  are  waiting  in  their  wagon  at 
the  corner  of  the  "  shore  road."  The  Smiths 
and  Robinsons  have  gone  on  ahead.  As  you 
reach  the  top  of  the  hill  by  the  windmill  the 
whole  panorama  of  beach  and  bay  is  before 
you.  The  white  sand  along  the  shore, 
streaked,  at  highwater  mark,  with  lines  of 
dark-green  seaweed;  the  weather-beaten  fish 
shanties  and  the  pines  at  Rocky  Point;  the 
fish  weirs  on  the  horizon ;  the  deep-blue  water 
beyond ;  and,  between  you  and  them,  a  mile  or 
more  of  clean  yellow  and  white  flats  and  eel- 
38 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

grass-bordered  channels.  There  is,  so  they 
say,  but  one  other  place  along  our  coast 
where  the  tide  goes  out  as  far  as  it  does  just 
here.  And  no  one  knows  exactly  where  that 
place  is. 

There  is  a  hail  behind  you,  and  here  come 
Uncle  Seth  and  Aunt  Tempy  in  the  carryall. 
The  children  set  up  a  whoop. 

"  All  hands  on  deck !  "  roars  Uncle  Seth. 
"  Faired  off  fine,  ain't  it?  What'd  I  tell  ye? 
Hello  there,  young  ones!  Got  your  appetites 
along?" 

One  of  the  boys  takes  down  the  bars  in 
the  rail  fence  and  you  leave  the  road  and 
drive  across  the  marshes.  The  wind  is  cool 
and  smells  of  salt.  You  reach  the  "  wading 
place,"  ford  the  creek,  and  emerge  upon  the 
beach  near  the  point.  And  here-  are  the 
Smiths  and  the  Robinsons,  with  hoes  and 
baskets  and  Buffalo  cousin,  all  complete. 

The  horses  are  unharnessed  and  tethered  in 
the  shade  of  the  abandoned  fishhouses.  You 
may  have  wondered  why  Uncle  Seth  and 
Aunt  Tempy  came  in  the  carryall  instead  of 
the  buggy.  You  cease  to  wonder  when  Aunt 

39 


Our  Village 

Tempy  unloads  the  boxes  and 
bundles.  There  are  enough 
of  these  to  fill  an  ordinary 
wagon. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake !  "  ex- 
claims Mr.  Brown  of  Buffalo. 
"That  isn't  all  lunch,   is   it? 
Going  to  invite  the  town  to  dinner  ?  " 

Aunt  Tempy  smiles  tolerantly.  "  You've 
never  been  to  a  clambake  afore,  have  you  ?  " 
she  asks.  "  Humph !  Well,  /  have." 

"  Turn  to,  you  lubbers !  "  orders  Uncle  Seth. 
"  Clam-diggers,  fall  in.  Women  folks,  do 
what  they  feel  like  doin'.  Young  ones,  fetch 
wood  and  get  rockweed." 

"  Oh,  don't  make  'em  fetch  wood  yet  a 
while,  *Seth,"  says  Aunt  Tempy.  "  There's 
time  enough.  They'll  want  to  see  the  clams 
dug." 

The  experienced  diggers  are  around  with 
three-  or  four-pronged  clam  hoes  and  wooden 
buckets.  Uncle  Seth,  being  a  professional, 
has  a  couple  of  "  dreeners,"  crates  made  of 
laths  with  handles  of  rope;  Cousin  Brown  is 
proudly  brandishing  a  garden  hoe. 
40 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

"  What  you  cal'late  to  do  with  that  thing?  " 
asks  Uncle  Seth.  "  Weed  pertaters  ?  " 

Mr.  Brown  affirms  that  he  intends  digging 
clams  with  it. 

"  Sho !  Land  of  love !  You'll  chop  'em 
into  hash,  let  alone  breakin'  your  back.  You 
leave  that  ashore  and  come  along  to  pick  up. 
There's  diggers  enough." 

But  the  Buffalo  pride  is  roused  and  Mr. 
Brown  still  clings  to  his  hoe.  Shoes  and 
socks  are  removed  and  the  barefooted  brigade 
marches  forth  to  descend  upon  the  unsuspect- 
ing clam,  Uncle  Seth  in  the  lead. 

The  flats  are  just  beyond  the  stretches  of 
spiky  sedge  grass.  Uncle  Seth's  toughened 
soles  brush  the  spikes  aside  or  tramp  them 
down,  but  the  tenderfoot  rear  guard  performs 
involuntary  war  dances  and  utters  stifled  but 
emphatic  remarks. 

"  Now,"  says  the  commander,  at  length, 
"  here's  as  good  a  place  as  any.  If  I  was 
after  sea  clams  I'd  go  way  out  yonder  back 
of  them  weirs ;  and  if  I  wanted  them  big  run- 
downs I'd  lay  to  'bout  a  quarter  mile  nigher 
shore'n  that.  But  for  a  bake  or  a  bile  there 
41 


Our  Village 

ain't  nothin'  better'n  the  little  sage  clams  you 
git  along  the  edge  of  this  grass.  Hoe  in;  all 
hands ! " 

Brown  wishes  to  know  how  you  can  tell 
where  to  dig. 

"  Well,"  condescends  Uncle  Seth,  "  I'll  tell 
ye.  See  them  holes  in  the  sand?  Some  of 
'em's  clam  holes  and  some  of  'em  ain't.  Them 
that  ain't  is  worms  and  you  don't  want  'em. 
I  can  'most  gin'rally  tell  a  worm  hole  from  a 
clam  hole,  but  blessed  if  I  know  how  I  do  it. 
Instinct  and  sense  of  smell,  I  cal'late,  same  as 
the  old  woman  knew  when  the  pie  was  burnt. 
Come  on,  now !  Hoe  in !  " 

You  "  hoe  in "  literally,  and  the  buckets 
begin  to  fill.  Uncle  Seth's  "  dreeners "  fill 
quicker  than  the  others  and  he  resurrects  less 
of  the  long,  ugly-looking,  thousand-legged 
sandworms.  It  is  blazing  hot  here  on  the 
flats  and  your  ankles  and  legs  begin  to  turn 
a  picturesque  and  vivid  crimson.  Also,  along 
toward  the  last  layers  in  the  bucket,  you  grow 
conscious  of  possessing  a  back.  You  turn 
over  successive  hoefuls  of  wet  sand,  and  the 
youngsters,  splashed,  dirty,  and  happy,  plunge 
42 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

both  hands  into  the 
hole  and  pull  loose  the 
clams. 

"  There  !  "   says   Un- 
cle Seth,  whose  "  dreeners  "  are  filled 
long  since  and  who  has  been  helping 
everyone    else,    "  there's    enough,    I 
jedge.    Good,  likely  mess,  too.    Now 
we    can    head    for    shore.      Why,    where's — 
where's  Mr.  Brown?" 

Brown  was  very  energetic  when  the  dig- 
ging f^rst  began.  His  garden  hoe  turned 
over  yards  and  yards  of  flats  and  his  breath- 
ing was  like  the  puffing  of  a  donkey  engine. 
But,  somehow,  he  didn't  find  many  clams. 
Most  of  those  he  did  find  were  mashed,  by 
the  sharp  edge  of  the  hoe,  into  pulpy  com- 
binations of  shell  and  sand.  And  now  he  has 
disappeared.  The  youngsters  remember  that 
he  wandered  over  behind  the  point.  So  all 
hands  begin  to  shout  "  Brown !  "  at  the  top 
of  their  voices. 

The  answer,  when  it  comes,  is  somewhat 
petulant.     "Yes,  yes!     I'm  coming.     What's 
the  matter  with  you  chaps  ?  " 
43 


Our  Village 

He  appears,  hopping  gingerly  through  the 
sedge.  But  on  his  sunburned  countenance  is 
pride  unmistakable. 

"  I  found  a  fine  place  in  nearer  shore 
there,"  he  declares,  "  just  where  that  little 
brook  runs  down.  Look  at  that." 

He  displays  a  half  bucket  of  little  black  clams, 
a  good  deal  hashed  up  by  the  hoe,  and  envel- 
oped in  a  cloak  of  evil-smelling  blue  clay. 

Uncle  Seth  inspects  the  find,  sniffs  suspi- 
ciously and  shakes  his  head.  Obviously  he 
doesn't  want  to  hurt  the  Buffalo  relative's 
feelings,  but 

"  I'm— I'm  kind  of  'fraid,  Mr.  Brown,"  he 
says.  "  'Course  you  didn't  know  no  better, 
not  havin'  experience,  but — you  see  clams  that 
you  git  out  of  that  sink  hole  ain't —  Phew! 
how  they  do  smell  up !  " 

So  Mr.  Brown's  treasures  are  discarded 
and  their  discoverer  limps  ashore,  one  hand 
on  the  small  of  his  back,  and  plainly  feeling 
himself  the  victim  of  spite  and  envy. 

The  clams — the  good  ones,  not  the  shells 
filled  with  sand  that  are  in  some  of  the  buckets 
— are  carefully  washed  in  a  channel  of  clear, 
44 


rippling  water,  and  the  diggers  return  to  the 
beach.  The  "  women  folks  "  have  not  been 
idle.  There  is  a  great  pile  of  driftwood  col- 
lected— old  sun-bleached  fragments  of  wrecks, 
dead  limbs  from  pine  trees,  laths  from  the 
weirs  and  the  like. 

"  Fust  rate !  "  says  Uncle  Seth.  "  That's 
a  good  job  done.  Ain't  got  nobody's  fence 
in  there,  have  ye  ?  Land  sakes  !  I  remember 
when  I  was  a  boy  we  had  a  bake  and  pretty 
nigh  used  up  all  the  rails  off  of  Cap'n  Benijah 
Lathrop's  fence,  and —  Humph!  I  forget 
that  little  pitchers  have  big  ears.  Guess  I'd 
better  be  careful.  Scatter,  you  young  ones, 
and  tote  rockweed.  Two  or  three  of  you  men 
get  stones.  I'll  dig  the  hole." 

You  go  along  the  beach,  picking  up  round, 
waterworn  bowlders  the  size  of  your  head. 
Returning  with  these,  you  find  that  Uncle 
Seth  has  dug  a  pit  in  the  sand  and  is  arrang- 
ing the  driftwood  within  it.  Newspaper  and 
shavings  beneath,  chips  and  small  fragments 
above,  the  large  limbs  and  beams  on  top. 
Then  he  lights  the  fire. 

It  smokes,  crackles,  and  roars.     Then,  into 

45 


Our  Village 

the  flaming  pile  are  thrown  the  stones  you  and 
the  others  have  brought.  More  wood  and 
more  stones  follow.  The  fire  burns  down  to 
a  mass  of  red-hot  coals.  These  Uncle  Seth 
removes  with  a  long-handled  iron  rake. 
There  are  the  stones,  white  hot;  they  hiss, 
when  sprinkled  with  water,  like  a  flatiron  just 
off  the  stove. 

"  Now  then,"  commands  the  chef,  drawing 
his  shirt  sleeve  across  his  perspiring  forehead, 
"  where's  that  basket,  Tempy  ?  " 

Aunt  Tempy  produces,  not  one  basket,  but 
two  big  ones.  From  these  her  husband  takes 
green  corn  in  the  husk,  new  •  potatoes,  and, 
finally,  thirty  or  more  interesting  looking  lit- 
tle bundles  of  white  cheese  cloth. 

"What's  them?"  he  vouchsafes.  "Well, 
son,  them's  tinker  mack'rel — little  ones.  I  got 
'em  from  the  weir  folks.  'Do  'em  up  that  way 
and  they  go  fine  with  a  bake ;  cook  jest  right. 
Now  heave  in  the  clams." 

Over  the  hot  stones  are  poured  bucket  after 
bucket  of  the  clean,  wet  clams.  A  mighty 
hissing  they  make,  too. 

"  Rockweed !  "  shouts  Uncle  Seth. 
46 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

The  children  have  brought  big  armfuls  of 
bulbous,  damp  weed,  torn  from  the  rocks  be- 
low tide  mark.  With  this  the  bake  is  covered 
and  a  square  of  canvas  is  laid  over  all.  From 
beneath  it  rises  a  great  cloud  of  steam.  Then 
the  canvas  is  covered  with  shovelfuls  of  the 
coarse  beach  sand. 

"  There !  "  says  Uncle  Seth.  "  Now  we're 
just  goin'  to  let  her  sizzle  for  half  an 
hour." 

While  she  "  sizzles  "  your  wife  and  Smith's 
wife  and  Jones's  and  Robinson's,  supervised 
and  directed  by  Aunt  Tempy,  spread  the 
cloths  on  the  green  in  the  shadow  of  the 
pines.  The  lunch  baskets  are  unpacked.  Bis- 
cuit and  pickles  and  pies  and  doughnuts  and 
sandwiches  and  hard-boiled  eggs  and  —  and, 
oh,  yes!  a  half  bushel  of  Aunt  Tempy 's 
apple  puffs  and — you  rather  sympathize  with 
Brown  in  his  wonder  at  the  supply  of  eat- 
ables ;  and  yet  you  are  conscious  of  a  ravenous 
appetite. 

Jones  has  brought  along  the  handiest  thing. 
It  is  a  little  folding  camp  stove,  made  of  sheet 
iron.  When  it  is  ready  for  use  it  is  square, 
47 


Our  Village 

like  a  box,  and  you  simply  pour  in  a  little  oil 
and  light  it.  It  will  be  so  nice  for  boiling 
the  coffee.  Coffee,  so  Jones  says,  never  can 
be  boiled  just  right  over  an  outdoor  wood 
fire. 

You  inspect  the  stove;  that  is,  you  inspect 
part  of  it,  for  one  side  seems  to  be  missing. 
At  last  it  is  found,  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon, 
under  a  lap  robe,  and  the  oil  is  poured  in. 
But  somehow  or  other  the  wicks  won't  trim. 
The  stove  smokes,  smells,  and  sputters  and 
Jones  sputters  likewise. 

"  Want  to  hurry  up  with  that  'ere  coffee," 
calls  Uncle  Seth.  "  Bake's  'most  done." 

This  makes  Jones  still  more  nervous,  and 
it  is  ten  minutes  more  before  the  stove  is 
ready.  And  then  the  coffeepot  is  lost.  It 
was  right  here  a  moment  ago  and  so  was  the 
coffee,  but 

"  Turn  to,  all  hands !  "  shouts  Uncle  Seth. 
"  Bake's  ready." 

He   carefully   turns   back   the   canvas   and 

rakes  off  the  rockweed ;  then  into  pans  held 

by  the  boys  and  girls  he  puts  great  handfuls 

of  hot  clams,  ears  of  corn,  potatoes,  and  the 

48 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

cloth-wrapped   fish.      My!    how   good    every- 
thing smells. 

"  If  we  only  had  that  coffee,  now,"  sighs 
Jones.  "  I  was  as  sure  I  brought  it  and  the 
coffeepot,  too,,  as  I  am  that  I'm  living.  How 
on  earth 

There  is  a  shout.  Uncle  Seth  appears, 
bearing  the  big  coffeepot,  steaming  and  fra- 
grant. 

"  While  you  was  fussin'  with  that  'ere  stove 
contraption/'  he  explains,  with  a  twinkle, 
"  I  made  a  chip  fire  and  started  her  bilin'. 
Now,  pitch  in,  folks,  and  eat  while  the  stuff's 
hot." 

Eat?  Well,  that's  what  everybody  does. 
The  children  "  pitch  in  "  with  both  hands  and 
the  grown  people  are  not  far  behind.  You 
remember  that  Brown  has  never  tasted  a  clam 
in  his  life;  he  has  eaten  quahaugs,  of  course, 
but  they  don't  count. 

He  opens  a  shell,  under  the  supervision  of 
Mrs.  Robinson,  extracts  the  clam,  dips  it  in 
his  saucer  of  melted  butter,  and  chews  delib- 
erately. 

"  Like  it  ?  "  asks  Robinson  anxiously. 
49 


Our  Village 

"  Don't  know  yet.  Guess  I'll  have  to  try 
another." 

He  tries  another  and  another  and  another; 
eats  half  a  peck  or  so  and  decides  that  he 
does  like  clams  and  will  have  some  more. 

"  Have  another  mug  of  coffee,"  urges  Un- 
cle Seth.  "  Ain't  nothin'  the  matter  with  that 
coffee,  is  there?  Even  if  'twas  biled  out  of 
door." 

There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  anything, 
apparently.  The  clams  are  tender  and  deli- 
cious; so,  too,  is  the  corn.  And  as  for  those 
"  tinker  mackerel  "  !  Whew ! 

At  last  the  doughnut  and  apple  puff  stage  is 
reached  and  you  begin  to  feel  that  a  cigar 
would  be  a  pleasant  wind-up  to  the  feast. 
But  the  children  are  eating  yet.  Wonderful 
what  appetites  they  do  have  down  here;  eat 
twice  as  much  as  they  do  at  home  in  the  city. 

"  Land  sakes !  "  says  Aunt  Tempy,  "  'course 
you  shall  have  more  pie,  if  you  want  it.  Let 
'em  eat,  bless  their  hearts !  " 

"  Young  ones  are  all  mouth  and  holler  in- 
side, like  a  pumpkin  lantern,  I  cal'late,"  ob- 
serves Uncle  Seth.  "  I  used  to  be  the  same 
50 


way.  Ain't  got  all  over  it  yet. 
Pass  them  cookies,  Tempy,  won't 
ye?" 

Well,  you  can't  eat  forever, 
even  at  a  clambake.  Pipe  and 
cigars  are  going  and  the  "  wom- 
en folks  "  wash  the  dishes.  The 
sun  sinks  toward  the  west.  The 
fire  has  gone  out  and  the  tide 
comes  in.  It  creeps  over  the  flats 
and  washes  musically  among  the 
sedge  where  you  dug  the  clams. 
The  children  are  building  forts 
along  the  shore,,  vain  bulwarks 
against  old  Ocean. 

Uncle  Seth  and  Aunt  Tempy  grow  reminis- 
cent. They  talk  of  other  clambakes  in  years 
long  gone  —  when  the  village  was  peopled 
with  sea  captains,  who  went  away  on  long 
voyages  and  came  home  occasionally  to  enjoy 
themselves  with  their  wives  and  families. 

"  'Member  that  bake  'Lisha  Doane  got  up, 
Seth?"  asks  Aunt  Tempy.  "Not  the  little 
one,  when  Caleb  was  here,  but  the  big  one 
when  he  was  home  for  the  last  time,  just  afore 

51 


Our  tillage 

him  and  his  wife  was  wrecked  and  drownded 
off  Hatteras?  Much  as  forty  folks  there 
was,  old  and  young,  and  such  a  good  time 
as  we  had!  Stayed  down  to  supper  and  then 
lighted  lanterns  and  danced  in  the  big  barn 
that  was  standin'  then  and  belonged  to  Abner 
Payne." 

"  Yus,  yus,"  chuckles  Uncle  Seth.  "  Dance  ? 
I  should  say  we  did!  'Twas  three  o'clock  in 
the  mornin'  when  I  got  home  that  time.  I 
was  courtin'  you  then,  Tempy,  and  I  drove 
down  to  the  old  house  and  got  you.  Do  you 
remember  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  do !  Mother  says :  '  Now,  Tem- 
py, don't  tire  yourself  all  out  dancin'.'  But 
dancin'  didn't  tire  folks  in  them  days." 

"  That's  so,  it  didn't.  Seems  's  if  I  could 
have  worked  all  day  and  danced  all  night  in 
them  times.  I  couldn't  do  it  now  no  more'n 
nothin'.  Must  have  been  more  life  in  the  air 
then." 

There  is  a  good  deal  more  of  this,  but  they 
both  agree  that  "  clambakes  ain't  the  fun  for 
folks  same  as  they  used  to  be." 

It  is  sunset,  and  the  western  horizon  is  all 
52 


I  was  courtin'  you  then,  Tempy.   .  .   .   Do  you  remember?1 


A  Cape  Cod  Clambake 

streaked  with  red  gold  and  topaz  and  tur- 
quoise. It  is  time  to  go  home.  So  the  horses 
are  harnessed,  the  empty  baskets  and  pots  and 
pans  are  loaded  into  the  wagons,  and  the  pro- 
cession moves  back  across  the  marshes.  But 
now  the  evening  wind  is  cold  and  the  dusky 
meadows  are  lonely,  and  the  frogs  are  sing- 
ing plaintive  songs  of  regret  and  longing. 
And  you  think  of  father  and  mother  and  the 
faces  that  once  met  you  along  the  old  village 
streets.  Heigho!  Whoa,  Ned!  Hurry  up, 
children.  It's  bedtime. 

Later  in  the  evening  you  are  conscious  that 
your  legs  and  arms  are  red  hot  and  that  witch 
hazel  is  good  for  sunburn.  Also  that  a  dys- 
pepsia tablet  or  two  might  prove  a  restful  so- 
lace for  the  clams  you  have  eaten.  Robinson 
limps  over  to  say  that  Brown  is  in  bed, 
swathed  in  cotton  and  vaseline,  and  that  his 
ankles  are  beginning  to  blister.  And,  please, 
what  is  good  for  a  lame  back? 

But  the  children,  lobster  red  though  they 
are,  went  to  bed  perfectly  happy.  No  dys- 
pepsia there  and  no  regrets,  either.  In  fact, 
the  youngest,  who  is  so  burned  that  his  moth- 
5.  53 


Our  Village 

er  is  really  worried,  demanded  to  know  why 
there  couldn't  be  a  clambake  every  day. 

You  used  to  feel  that  way,  too.  Now  you 
shudder  to  think  of  it.  If  old  Father  Time 
would  pause  for  a  while  in  that  everlasting 
march  of  his  ...  "  Folks  don't  have  the  good 
times  they  used  to  have."  Well,  perhaps 
that's  so. 


THE   OLD   MAIDS 


THE    OLD    MAIDS 

IT  wasn't  that  old  maids  were  rare  in  our 
village.  Single  ladies  of  a  certain  age,  who 
scorned  matrimony  and  were  thankful  that 
they  were  not  burdened  with  husbands  and 
household  cares,  were  plentiful — almost  as 
plentiful  as  sea  captains. 

The  Widow  Cummings's  "  select  boarding- 
house  "  was  full  of  them.  Miss  Harriet  Beas- 
ley,  who  presided  over  the  Ladies'  Circulating 
Library,  boarded  there;  so  did  Miss  Olivia 
Simpson,  the  school-teacher,  and  Miss  Jane 
Berry,  local  leader  of  the  Women's  Rights 

57 


Our  Village 

movement,  and  several  more  dignified  and 
precise  spinsters.  Conversation  at  the  Cum- 
mings  table  was  conducted  on  a  highly  lit- 
erary and  learned  plane.  It  is  recorded  of 
Zoeth  Labrick,  the  sexton,  one  of  the  few 
males  who  "  took  meals  "  at  the  widow's,  that, 
after  his  first  fortnight  of  select  boarding,  he 
drifted  into  Dr.  Hallett's  office  and  asked  the 
doctor  if  the  latter  had  "  ary  book  around  the 
house  that  was  wrote  by  Mike  L.  Angelo,  one 
of  them  Eyetalians." 

"  You  see,  doc,"  said  Zoeth,  "  Hattie  Beas- 
ley  and  the  rest  have  been  talkin'  about  this 
Angelo  critter  mealtimes  till  you  can't  rest. 
Asked  me  what  I  considered  the  chief  beauty 
of  his  '  Moses.'  And  when  I  says,  '  Moses 
who  ? '  they  giggled.  Makes  a  feller  feel  like 
a  born  fool." 

Abitha  Doane,  the  milliner,  was  a  spinster ; 
so  was  Caroline  Pepper,  the  dressmaker,  who 
lived  with  her.  Caroline  looked  the  part,  too, 
and  wore  jet  earrings  and  a  tan-colored  "  false 
front."  Either  her  head  had  grown  or  the 
"  front "  had  shrunk,  for  the  tan  area  only 
extended  to  the  tops  of  her  ears  and  her  own 

58 


The  Old  Maids 

gray  hair  stuck  out  around  the  edges  like 
trimming.  Miss  Pepper  was  an  old  maid  to 
the  fullest  extent  of  the  popular  meaning  of 
the  term,  but  when  the  people  of  our  village 
mentioned  "  the  old  maids "  they  were  not 
speaking  of  her  and  Abitha,  nor  of  the  board- 
ers at  the  Cummingses'.  They  referred  to 
"Pashy  and  Huldy "  Baker.  "  Pashy  and 
Huldy  "  were  the  old  maids. 

The  house  where  the  old  maids  lived  was  on 
the  Neck  Road,  beyond  the  grove  known  lo- 
cally as  "  Elkanah's  Pines,"  and  near  the 
swamp  where  the  feather  grass  grew  and  the 
spring  bubbled  up  in  the  sunken  barrel.  It 
was  a  big,  square,  old  house,  standing  a  good 
way  back  from  the  sidewalk,  with  high  plas- 
tered chimneys — the  plaster  had  peeled  off  in 
spots  so  that  the  red  bricks  showed — and  it 
had  a  massive  front  door  with  pillars  at  each 
side  and  an  arched  window  above.  Your 
Cousin  Ed,  who  lived  in  Boston  and  was  go- 
ing to  be  an  artist  some  day — after  he  got 
through  "  making  the  crew  "  and  being  condi- 
tioned at  Harvard — enthused  over  that  house. 
He  said  it  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  Colonial 

59 


Our  Village 

architecture.  Then  he  saw  the  old  maids 
themselves,  and  promptly  declared  that  they 
were  perfect  specimens  likewise. 

Your  earliest  memories  of  the  old  maids 
and  their  home  are  associated  with  summer 
Sunday  afternoons  and  the  walks  you  used  to 
take  with  grandma.  These  walks  varied  a 
little  as  to  route,  but  their  objective  point  was 
always  the  same,  namely,  the  cemetery.  There 
were  many  things  which  the  respectable  por- 
tion of  our  village  considered  wicked  to  do 
on  Sunday,  but  to  walk  to  the  cemetery  was 
not  one  of  these.  Grandma  liked  to  go  there 
for  various  reasons,  to  carry  flowers  for  Aunt 
Desire's  grave,  to  see  if  the  man  who  was  paid 
one  dollar  a  year  for  taking  care 
of  the  family  lot  was  earning  his 
salary,  to  inspect  the  new  tomb- 
stones which  were  erected  from 
time  to  time  and  speculate  con- 
cerning their  cost,  and  to  instill 
into  your  young  mind  the  inev- 
itable end  of  worldly  ambition 
and  the  necessity  of  preparation 
for  the  hazardous  beyond. 
60 


The  Old  Maids 

You  didn't  care  much  for  the  cemetery. 
There  were  several  epitaphs  which  fascinated 
you  for  a  while,  epitaphs  like  that  of 

SOLON  TYNDALL, 

KILLED    BY    A    FALL   FROM    THE    MAIN    TOPSAIL 

YARD    OF    THE    BARK    AMAZON,    IN    THE 

HARBOR   OF    BUENOS    AYRES 

ON    MARCH    12,    1850 

He  as  a  seaman  did  his  duty  well, 
But  his  foot  slipped  and  from  aloft  he  fell, 
Fell,  but  to  rise  and  climb  the  shrouds  on  high, 
And  greet  his  Master  with  a  glad  "Aye,  aye." 

Or  that  which  recorded  the  fate  of 
ABSALOM    PETERS, 

SHOT    IN    THE    CREEK    BY    THE    EXPLOSION 
OF   HIS   OWN   GUN. 

As  grandma  when  she  read  this  inscription 
invariably  pronounced  "  creek  "  like  "  crick," 
you  associated  it  with  the  lumbago,  called 
locally  "  a  crick  in  the  back,"  and  wondered 
what  the  unfortunate  Absalom  was  doing  with 
his  gun  behind  him.  Later  you  learned  that 
he  was  duck-hunting  in  the  creek  between 
East  Harniss  and  our  village  and  had  been 
accidentally  shot  through  the  breast. 
61 


Our  Village 

But  though  the  epitaphs  soon  lost  their  nov- 
elty and  the  cemetery  itself  grew  to  be  as  tire- 
some as  grandma's  sermons,  the  walks  there 
and  back  were  delightful.  You  turned  in  at 
Cap'n  Rogers's  side  gate,  went  down  through 
the  pasture,  by  the  "  peat  hole "  where  the 
turtles  were  sunning  themselves  on  the  pro- 
jecting stumps,  and  climbed  the  hill  on  the 
other  side.  This  hill  in  winter  was  the  most 
dangerous,  and  consequently  the  most  fasci- 
nating, coast  in  town,  but  now  it  was  a  daisy- 
starred  lookout  from  which  you  might  see  for 
three  land  miles  and  fifteen  watery  ones.  Di- 
rectly beneath  you  were  clumps  of  huckle- 
berry bushes  and  scrub  oaks,  with  the  path 
winding  through  them  between  the  cranberry 
swamps;  beyond  was  the  dusty  yellow  ribbon 
of  the  Neck  Road,  bordered  with  gray  rail 
fences  or  mossy  stone  walls,  with  an  occa- 
sional house,  barn,  and  chicken  yard ;  "  Elka- 
nah's  Pines "  made  a  velvety  green  blotch, 
and  the  white  stones  of  the  cemetery  shone  in 
the  sun ;  back  of  all  was  the  blue  bay,  a-dance 
in  the  wind,  with  the  distant  buff  sand  dunes 
of  the  Trumet  shore  notching  the  skyline. 
62 


The  Old  Maids 

From  the  hill  the  old  maids'  house  was  con- 
spicuous. Four-squared,  solid,  and  aristo- 
cratic, in  its  day  by  far  the  most  pretentious 
dwelling  on  the  Neck  Road,  it  seemed  to  be 
holding  itself  aloof  from  the  common  herd, 
and,  secluded  behind  the  two  great  elms  at 
each  side  of  its  door,  to  be  viewing  the  village 
with  dignified  toleration.  At  this  distance 
one  could  not  see  the  broken  plaster  of  the 
chimneys,  the  lack  of  paint,  the  rotting  shin- 
gles, the  fences  leaning  this  way  and  that. 
From  the  hill  it  appeared  eminently  genteel; 
near  at  hand  the  shabbiness  of  the  gentility 
forced  itself  upon  you. 

The  foot  of  this  hill,  near  the  plank  bridge 
over  the  cranberry  ditch,  was  the  spot  where 
you  and  grandma  were  most  likely  to  meet 
the  old  maids.  You  had  caught  glimpses  of 
them  through  the  huckleberry  bushes  as  you 
came  down  the  slope.  The  swamp  honey- 
suckles grew  thick  about  the  little  bridge,  and 
perhaps  that  is  why  you  never  think  of 
"  Pashy  and  Huldy  "  without  seeming  to  sniff 
the  perfume  of  the  honeysuckle  blooms. 

"  Pashy " — her    right   name   was    Patience, 

63 


Our  Village 

you  discovered  later,  and  her  sister's,  Hulda 
— was  in  the  lead.  She  always  took  the  lead 
when  the  pair  went  walking,  just  as  she  did 
in  all  practical  and  worldly  matters,  house- 
hold cares,  and  the  like.  Hulda  only  led  in 
fashionable  conversation,  in  letter  writing,  in 
fancy  needlework,  and  in  the  discussion  of 
Tom  Moore's  merits  as  a  poet.  So  it  had 
been  since  they  were  children — Pashy  was  the 
caretaker  and  business  manager ;  Huldy  the 
social  star,  the  family  pet,  and  ornament. 

This  distinction  showed  in  the  manner  in 
which  the  sisters  dressed.  Both  wore  gar- 
ments which  had  been  the  fashion  ten  or  fif- 
teen years  before,  but  Pashy's  were  plain  and 
businesslike,  while  Huldy's  were  more  pre- 
tentious and  inclined  toward  a  middle-aged 
and  very  respectable  coquetry.  It  was  Pashy 
who  wore  the  shoulder  kerchief  and  the  plain 
bonnet  of  a  coal-scuttle  pattern,  which  in  cold 
weather  was  exchanged  for  a  quilted  hood. 
Her  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle  and 
brushed  back  at  each  side.  Huldy  wore  curls 
and  a  hat  which  tied  with  ribbons  beneath  her 
chin;  a  figured  cashmere  shawl  was  thrown 
64 


The  Old  Maids 

over  her  shoulders,  and  about  her  neck  was  a 
red  coral  necklace.  Her  lace  collar  was  fast- 
ened with  a  large  cameo  pin,  and  there  was  a 
gold  ring  on  her  finger,  and  what  grandma 
called  "  danglets "  of  red  coral  dependent 
from  her  ears. 

Huldy  carried  a  faded  blue  silk  parasol, 
neatly  patched  and  mended  in  a  dozen  places, 
and  Pashy  bore  an  ancient  and  pudgy  green 
umbrella  and  a  flowered  carpet-bag  with  a 
pair  of  leather  handles.  The  contents  of  that 
carpet-bag  seldom  varied,  and  could  have  been 
itemized  from  memory  by  every  adult  and 
nearly  every  child  in  our  village.  There  were 
the  two  clean  handkerchiefs — a  plain  one  for 
Pashy  and  an  embroidered  one  for  Huldy ;  a 
bottle  for  smelling  salts,  empty;  a  leather 
purse,  containing  very  little  except  two  large 
house  keys,  those  of  the  front  and  back  doors ; 
a  little  silk  bag  with  some  bits  of  sugared  flag- 
root  in  it ;  and  always  on  Sunday  afternoons 
a  plump  envelope  stamped  precisely  in  the 
upper  right-hand  corner,  and  addressed  to  the 
niece  who  lived  in  New  Orleans. 

Writing  this  letter  to  the  far-off  niece  was 
65 


Our  Village 

a  Sabbath  ceremony  as  regular  and  almost  as 
solemn  as  going  to  church,  for  the  old  maids. 
Huldy  sat  down  to  the  mahogany  desk  with 
the  rickety,  twisted  legs,  and  unlocked  the 
inlaid  writing  case,  which  her  father,  pom- 
pous old  Cap'n  Darius  Baker,  had  brought 
home  from  Genoa  when  she  was  a  child. 
Pashy  sat  beside  her  sister,  holding  in  her  lap 
a  copy  of  "  The  Gentlewoman's  Complete  Let- 
ter Writer."  Between  them,  on  the  floor,  lay 
Dr.  Johnson's  ponderous  dictionary. 

Huldy  looked  at  her  sister,  took  up  the 
pearl-handled  pen  which  had  come  with  the 
writing  case,  and  drew  a  long  preparatory 
breath.  Pashy  returned  the  look  and  also 
drew  a  long  breath.  Then  Huldy  dipped  the 
pen  in  the  ink  well  and  wrote  at  the  top  of  the 
sheet  of  note  paper : 

BELOVED  NIECE  :  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  inform 
you  that  my  dear  sister  and  I  are  well  and  we  trust 
and  pray  that  this  may  find  you  the  same. 

The  letter,  thus  begun,  continued   for  ex- 
actly eight  pages.    It  was  filled  with  such  bits 
of  village  news  as  had  reached  the  ears  of  the 
66 


The  Old  Maids 

sisters,  together  with  a  careful  notation  of  the 
household  doings,  how  many  eggs  the  hens 
had  laid,  the  number  of  pears  on  the  ancient 
Bartlett  tree,  and  similar  items,  all  couched  in 
the  stilted  language  of  the  "  Complete  Letter 
Writer,"  and  ornamented  with  such  quota- 
tions from  Moore's  poems  as  Huldy  consid- 
ered appropriate. 

The  next  step,  following  the  completion  of 
the  letter,  was  to  take  it  to  the  post  office,  in 
order  that  it  might  be  sure  to  go  out  on  the 
early  mail  Monday  morning,  and  this  trip  to 
the  office,  via  the  same  "  short  cut  "  which  you 
and  grandma  took  on  the  way  to  the  ceme- 
tery, was  the  occasion  of  your  meeting  the  old 
maids  with  such  regularity  at  the  little  bridge. 

The  conversation  at  these  meetings  did  not 
vary  greatly. 

"  Land  sakes !  "  grandma  would  exclaim, 
under  her  breath,  "  here's  the  old  maids. 
Thought  'twas  about  time.  They're  as  sure 
as  death  and  taxes."  Then  aloud:  "Good 
morning,  Pashy.  How  d'ye  do,  Huldy  ?  Nice 
seasonable  weather  we're  having.  I  presume 
likely  you're  going  up  to  mail  your  letter." 

67 


Our  Village 

The  old  maids  acknowledged  the  greeting, 
each  in  her  individual  manner. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  Pashy  briskly. 
"  Yes,  we're  going  to  the  post  office  to — 

"  To  insert  our  epistle  in  the  receptacle  for 
postal  matter,"  concluded  Huldy  graciously. 
"  The  weather  is  indeed  delightful.  As  the 
bard  has  said " 

What  the  bard  said  cannot  be  recalled  at 
the  moment.  However,  it  doesn't  matter ;  he 
was  sure  to  have  said  something  appropriate 
to  any  and  all  topics.  The  old  maids  passed 
on  and  grandma  looked  after  them. 

"  Cat's  foot !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Don't  they 
beat  the  Dutch?  A  body  would  think  they 
were  King  Solomon's  nighest  relations,  and  yet 
it's  just  as  likely  as  not  they  don't  have  a  full 

,,-  ,*••*  meal  of  victuals  from  one  week's  end 

^,v-«  to  the  other — that  is,  unless  they're 

*3^jCi'1*    invited  out." 

,*.x  _••**•»   '' 

There  was  truth  in  grandma's  ob- 
servation, but  on  the  one 
memorable  occasion  when 
you  and  mother  took  tea 
68 


The  Old  Maids 

with  the  old  maids  the  grandeur  of  the  cere- 
mony overshadowed  any  shortage  in  the  com- 
missary department.  The  table  was  set  in 
the  dining  room,  of  course,  the  old-time,  low- 
studded  dining  room,  with  its  yellow  wood- 
work, which  had  once  been  white,  with  its 
tall  clock  in  the  corner  and  the  braided  rag 
mats  on  the  floor,  with  its  chairs  at  equal 
distances  along  the  walls,  and  each  set  so 
exactly  in  its  habitual  place  that  there  were 
little  marks  on  the  floor  which  the  legs  fitted 
into. 

Everything  was  years  and  years  old  and  far 
behind  the  times ;  even  the  tall  clock,  which, 
so  Pashy  explained,  was  two  hours  and  a 
quarter  slow,  but,  as  she  and  her  sister  were 
used  to  it  and  always  figured  accordingly,  it 
really  didn't  make  much  difference.  The 
clock,  by  the  way,  exhibited  above  its  face  a 
painted  marine  scene,  where  a  ship  behind  a 
ridge  of  tin  waves  rocked  steadily  with  every 
swing  of  the  pendulum. 

The  dishes  were  blue  and  white,  with  pic- 
tures of  pagodas  and  funny  little  bridges  upon 
them.  The  teacups  had  no  handles — that  is, 
6  69 


Our  Village 

they  were  made  without  them  —  and  both 
Pashy  and  Huldy  drank  their  tea  from  the 
saucers  instead  of  the  cups  themselves ;  the 
air  with  which  Huldy  sipped  hers,  holding  the 
saucer  in  her  left  hand,  with  the  little  finger 
stiffly  extended,  was  inimitable  and  impres- 
sive. The  milk  pitcher  was  yellow,  and  upon 
its  side  was  a  picture  of  the  death  of  Wash- 
ington, the  great  George  being  lifted  from  his 
bed  by  four  angels  with  spreading  wings  and 
radiant  halos,  up  to  a  mass  of  tumbled  clouds 
which  seemed  to  betoken  a  coming  thunder- 
storm. 

There  were  pictures  on  the  walls,  pictures 
of  ships  at  sea  or  of  scenes  in  foreign  ports. 
A  worsted  "  sampler,"  made  by  Pashy  when 
a  schoolgirl,  was  framed  and  hung  among 
them ;  so,  too,  was  Cap'n  Baker's  certificate  of 
membership  in  the  Boston  Marine  Society, 
and  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  Baker  family, 
done  in  screaming  water  colors.  Also  there 
was  a  large  colored  print  of  the  battle  be- 
tween the  Constitution  and  the  Guerriere. 
The  Constitution  flew  a  ^tremendous  battle 
flag,  the  red  and  blue  of  which  not  only  cov- 
70 


The  Old  Maids 

ered  the  banner  but  a  liberal  section  of  adja- 
cent sky. 

Pashy  pronounced  a  solemn  and  lengthy 
blessing,  to  which  her  sister,  from  the  foot  of 
the  table,  responded  with  a  devout  "  Amen." 
Then  Pashy  poured  the  tea,  Huldy  passed  the 
bread  and  butter,  and  the  meal  began. 

It  was  a  quaint,  old-fashioned  meal,  the  food 
not  too  abundant,  but  everything  very  good 
indeed.  There  were  caraway-seed  cookies 
and  sweet-apple  and  barberry  preserves,  and 
tiny  cranberry  tarts,  sweetened  with  molasses 
instead  of  sugar.  And,  while  you  ate,  the  old 
maids  and  mother  talked,  talked  of  the  min- 
ister's latest  sermon  and  of  the  weather  and 
of  grandfather's  health.  Huldy  embellished 
the  conversation  with  quotations  from  Dr. 
Johnson  and  Tom  Moore,  and  gave  unquali- 
fied testimonial  to  the  benefit  derived  from 
"  Indian  Bitters,"  a  cure-all,  the  receipt  for 
which  had  been  handed  down  from  her  grand- 
parents. Also  she  spoke  of  Godey's  Hady's 
Book  as  the  one  periodical  suited  to  the  lit- 
erary needs  of  a  genteel  family. 

"  We  used  to  take,"  she  added,  a  tinge  of 
71 


Our  Village 

regret  in  her  voice,  "  Gleason's  Monthly  Pic- 
torial, but  that  was  when  father  was  alive. 
We  don't  take  it  now.  It — it  isn't  what  it 
used  to  be." 

Now  the  Pictorial  was  still  a  revered  vis- 
itor at  your  house,  therefore  you  were  sur- 
prised when  mother  acquiesced  with  a  prompt 
"  No,  certainly  not." 

One  element  of  tea-table  chat  was  conspicu- 
ously lacking,  that  is,  gossip.  The  old  maids 
never  gossiped — gossip  was  not  genteel. 

After  supper  you  went  into  the  sitting 
room.  And  there,  amidst  staid,  heavy  pieces 
of  mahogany  furniture  and  bits  of  bric-a-brac 
from  China  and  Japan  and  India,  under  in- 
spection by  rows  of  stiff  portraits  in  oil,  you 
sat  and  wriggled  while  mother  and  the  old 
maids  talked  and  talked  and  talked. 

Huldy  said  good-by  in  the  sitting  room,  but 
Pashy  came  to  the  door.  There  she  and 
mother  whispered  for  a  few  moments.  You 
caught  fragments  like :  "  Yes,  the  shawl  will 
be  done  in  a  week  "if  I  can  work  nights;  my 
eyes  aren't  what  they  used  to  be."  "  Yes,  we 
should  be  thankful  for  the  potatoes,  but,  of 
72 


The  Old  Maids 

course,  we  couldn't  think  of  letting  you  give 
them  to  us.  We  are  not  dependent  upon  char- 
ity, thank  goodness."  And,  "  Please  don't  let 
Huldy  know  I  told  you  this.  She  is  so  deli- 


cate, and  has  been  through  so  much,  poor 
child,  that  I  try  to  carry  most  of  the  load  my- 
self. But  sometimes  it  is  awful  hard." 

Then  you  went  away  into  the  shadows  of 
the    starry    night,    wondering   and    thinking. 

73 


Our  Village 

After  you  had  passed  the  cemetery  and  felt 
safe  enough  to  relax  your  grip  on  mother's 
hand,  you  asked  her  many  questions,  but  she 
would  not  answer  them,  always  changing  the 
subject.  So  you  knew  there  was  a  mystery 
concerning  the  old  maids — a  secret  known  to 
mother  and  grandma,  and  perhaps  all  the 
"  grown-ups,"  but  not  to  little  boys. 

Well,  you  know  the  secret  now.  The  ro- 
mance you  suspected  was  there,  but  it  was 
such  a  sordid,  pitiful  romance ;  hardly  worth 
the  telling,  it  may  be,  except  for  the  fact  that 
it  contained  a  great  surprise.  And  the  sur- 
prise was  this : 

The  old  maids  were  not  old  maids  at  all! 
That  is,  one  of  them  was  not.  Huldy  had 
been  married;  she  was  a  widow. 

Cap'n  Darius  Baker  was  a  great  man  in  his 
day.  One  of  the  magnates  of  our  village  he 
was,  after  he  retired  from  sea,  and  drove  a 
span  and  gave  h'berally  to  the  church  and  for 
town  improvements.  After  his  election  to  the 
State  Legislature  the  big  house  on  the  Neck 
Road  was  filled  with  guests  whom  the  cap'n 
brought  down  from  Boston,  and  there  were 
74 


The  Old  Maids 


parties  and  dinners  galore.  Once  —  it  was 
grandma's  pet  story  —  the  Governor  visited 
our  village,  and  it  was  Cap'n  Baker  who  en- 
tertained him  and,  at  the  ball  that  evening, 
Cap'n  Baker's  daughter  Huldy  who  led  the 
march  with  the  great  man. 

Pashy  and  Huldy  were  girls  at  that  time, 
but  then,  as  later,  it  was  Pashy  who  attended 
to  the  household  duties  and  Huldy  who  shone 
in  the  social  gayety.  Mrs.  Baker  had  died 
when  her  youngest  daughter  was  born,  and 
upon  Patience,  the  elder,  fell  the  care  of  the 
establishment  and  its  servants — three  of  them, 
more  than  any  other  house  in  the  community 
could  boast  of.  Pashy  was  plain  and  practi- 
cal ;  Huldy  rather  pretty  and  poetical.  Huldy 
was  her  father's  spoiled  darling,  and  Pasby, 
without  jealousy,  assisted  in  the 
spoiling. 

Cap'n  Darius,  though  respect- 
ed and  envied,  was  not  a  univer- 
sal favorite.  He  was  considered 
pompous  and  "  stuck  up,"  and 
people  said  that  he  held  himself 
above  "  common  folks."  At  any 

75 


Our  Village 

rate  he  certainly  did  seem  to  consider  his 
daughters  too  good  for  the  village  young  men 
who  came  to  call  upon  them,  and  some  of 
these  young  men  were  promising  skippers  of 
full-rigged  ships,  and  "  catches  "  whom  many 
*a  scheming  parent  had  marked  and  laid  traps 
for.  So,  though  the  girls — Huldy  in  particu- 
lar— had  many  would-be  beaux,  no  one  of  the 
latter  could  be  picked  out  by  the  gossips  as 
"  steady  company  "  for  either  of  the  sisters. 

And  then  came  the  count.  This  is  the 
only  recorded  instance  of  the  coming  of  no- 
bility to  our  village,  and  it  created  a  sensa- 
tion which  extended  over  the  whole  county. 
On  the  first  Sunday  when  Huldy  Baker  en- 
tered the  meeting  house  upon  the  arm  of  the 
titled  foreigner,  Parson  Simpkins's  reading  of 
the  Scripture  stopped  for  an  instant,  and  the 
buzz  of  excited  interest  which  stirred  the  con- 
gregation reminded  its  older  members  of  the 
time  when  Araminta  Penniman  marched  up 
the  aisle  with  her  bonnet  on  "  hind  side  be- 
fore." 

The  count,  so  it  appeared — his  name  is  for- 
gotten  now,    and    you   never    heard    it    pro- 
76 


The  Old  Maids 

nounced  twice  alike  by  those  who  pretended 
to  remember  it — was  an  Italian  nobleman  vis- 
iting this  country  on  a  pleasure  trip.  He  had 
met  Cap'n  Darius  at  a  dinner  in  Boston,  and 
the  cap'n,  with  customary  enterprise,  had 
seized  upon  him  and  brought  him  home  for 
an  over-Sunday  stay.  People,  supposed  to  be 
up  in  such  matters,  remarked  that  he  was 
"  dead  gone  on  Huldy  already." 

Apparently  he  was,  for  he  came  again  and 
again,  until,  finally,  the  engagement  was  an- 
nounced. The  wedding  was  the  swellest  af- 
fair ever  known  on  the  Cape,  and,  so  the 
Item  said,  was  attended  by  "  a  galaxy  of 
beauty  and  chivalry  which  would  have  done 
honor  to  the  proudest  capitals  of  Europe." 
None  of  the  count's  relatives  were  present, 
but  that  was  not  expected — Italy  was  a  long 
way  off  in  those  days.  The  bridal  couple  de- 
parted, via  the  Boston  packet,  on  their  honey- 
moon journey  to — well,  anywhere,  from  the 
pyramids  of  Egypt  to  Niagara  Falls,  accord- 
ing to  who  told  the  story.  Cap'n  Baker  re- 
turned to  the  Legislature,  Pashy  remained  at 
home  to  keep  house  as  usual,  and  our  vil- 

77 


Our  Village 

lage  rubbed  its  eyes  and  settled  back  to  await 
developments. 

They  came  within  a  year.  Of  course  every- 
one who  reads  this  has  already  foreseen  the 
miserable  denouement.  But  cables  were  un- 
known and  newspapers  scarce  then,  so  tales 
of  bogus  counts  and  their  wiles  had  not  been 
printed  broadcast  to  serve  as  warnings  for  as- 
piring fathers  and  ambitious  young  women. 
The  count  wasn't  a  count  at  all.  He  wasn't 
even  an  Italian,  but  hailed  from  somewhere 
in  the  South  and  had  a  wife  and  daughter 
living  in  New  Orleans.  Anxious  letters  from 
the  forsaken  wife  led  to  the  disclosure  and 
the  consequent  scandal.  Our  village  stopped 
work  for  a  week,  to  gather  at  the  sewing  cir- 
cle and  the  post  office  and  whisper  rumors 
and  surmises. 

The  rumors  became  certainties,  and  more 
rumors  trod  upon  the  heels  of  the  first. 
Huldy  had  come  back  to  her  father  at  Boston. 
The  count  was  in  jail  somewhere.  Cap'n  Ba- 
ker was  in  financial  difficulties ;  he  had  been 
speculating  and  had  lost  all  his  money ;  the 
marriage  with  the  supposedly  rich  nobleman 
78 


The  Old  Maids 

had  been  arranged  by 
him  with  a  hope  that 
his  son-in-law's  wealth 
might  help  him  out  of  „. 
his  troubles.  Huldy  was 
very  sick.  There  was 
talk  of  arresting  her  father. 

They  say  Pashy's  demeanor  at  this 
dreadful  time  was  something  to  be  re- 
membered. She  grew  thin  and  white,  A^ 
but  she  bore  herself  as  proudly  and 
went  about  her  work  as  bravely  as  when  the 
family  name  was  clean  and  unsmirched.  She 
went  to  church  each  Sunday  and  sat  in  the 
Baker  pew,  and  those  who  would  fain  have 
sympathized  with  her  did  not  dare  do  so,  any 
more  than  the  meaner  souls  who  would  have 
liked  to  gloat  over  her  downfall  dared  sneer 
in  her  presence. 

Then  came  the  final  crash.  Cap'n  Darius 
committed  suicide  in  a  Boston  hotel,  and 
Huldy,  weak,  worn,  and  crushed,  came  to  our 
village  with  the  body.  Even  then  Pashy  did 
not  openly  give  way,  but  sheltered  her  sister 
from  curious  eyes  and  took  upon  her  own 
79 


Our  Village 

shoulders  all  the  worry  and  anxiety  of  the 
months  that  followed. 

So  that  is  the  story  of  the  old  maids.  All 
their  lives  they  lived  in  the  old  house,  amidst 
the  treasures  collected  during  their  father's 
prosperity,  and  no  one  but  a  very  few  knew 
— though  many  guessed — how  hard  was  the 
struggle  for  even  the  necessities  of  life,  and 
how  they  sewed  and  crocheted  and  knit  far 
into  the  nights  to  make  the  articles  they  sold 
to  the  townspeople  and  the  summer  visitors. 
And  to  fewer  still  was  known  how  stead- 
fastly Pashy  bore  her  burden  and  how  she 
refused  charity  and  sacrificed  her  own  com- 
fort and  actual  needs  to  humor  her  weaker 
sister.  The  "  niece  "  in  New  Orleans  was  trie 
count's  daughter.  Huldy  felt  a  curious  and 
deep-rooted  sympathy  for  this  girl,  whose 
father  had  wronged  her,  and  the  letter  every 
Sunday  was  faithfully  written  and  faithfully 
mailed  until  the  hands  which  wrote  and  mailed 
it  were  still  forever. 

The  old  maids  died  years  ago,  before  you 
left  our  village.  Pashy,  worn  out,  died  first, 
and  Huldy,  entirely  at  sea  without  her  pro- 
80 


The  Old  Maids 

tector  and  guide,  followed  in  a  few  months. 
She  left  the  house  and  its  contents  to  the  New 
Orleans  "  niece,"  but  no  sooner  was  she  in 
her  grave  than,  behold,  a  swarm  of  hitherto 
unheard-of  relatives  appeared — cousins  three 
or  four  times  removed — and  they  fought  over 
the  will  like  sharks  over  a  dead  whale.  There 
were  auction  sales  at  which  the  blue  china 
cups  and  saucers  and  the  spinning  wheels  and 
warming  pans,  the  mahogany  furniture  and 
the  gilt-framed  mirrors;  were  sold  at  prices 
which  would  have  kept  the  old  maids  in  com- 
fort for  years.  But  to  sell  articles  which  be- 
longed to  "  father  "  was  not  Pashy's  way ;  she 
would  have  worked  herself  to  death  first. 
•  The  house  on  the  Neck  Road  is  now  occu- 
pied by  a  Portuguese  family,  who  pick  cran- 
berries and  go  out  "  choring  "  and  washing. 
One  day  during  a  recent  summer,  as  you  were 
strolling  by,  you  saw  three  of  the  little  Portu- 
guese children — goodness  knows  how  many  of 
them  there  are — playing  at  "  keeping  house  " 
in  the  yard.  They  had  a  lean-to  of  boards, 
and  it  was  furnished,  after  a  fashion,  with 
broken-down  doll's  furniture  donated  by  some 
81 


Our  Village 

kind-hearted  summer  resident.  There  was  a 
piece  of  looking-glass  tacked  on  the  walls  of 
the  playhouse  and  what  appeared  to  be  a 
framed  picture.  But  it  wasn't  a  picture — it 
was  the  worsted  "  sampler  "  that  hung  on  the 
walls  of  the  dining  room  that  evening  when 
you  took  tea  with  the  old  maids. 

You  bought  that  sampler  and  you  have  it 
yet.  To  you  it  is  fragrant  with  the  scent  of 
wild  honeysuckle  and  of  sugared  flagroot,  of 
the  summer  Sunday  walks  with  grandma,  and 
memories  of  "  Pashy  and  Huldy." 


THE  SCHOOL   PICNIC 


THE    SCHOOL   PICNIC 

I  PRESUME  that  few,  if  any,  of  those  pres- 
ent have  ever  attended  a  school  picnic.   Wait 
— wait  just  a  minute,  please!     Kindly  keep 
your  seats.    Don't  attempt  to  protest  all  at  the 
same  time.     The  chairman  has  accorded  me 
the  privilege  of  the  floor  and  I  do  not  intend 
relinquishing  it  until  I  have  made  my  speech. 
As  I  was  about  to  say  when  interrupted — I 
presume  that   few,   if  any,  of  those   present 
7  85    ' 


Our  Village 

have  ever  attended  a  school  picnic,  such  as  a 
wise  committee  used  to  provide  yearly  for  the 
children  in  our  village. 

I  do  not  mean  a  Sunday-school  picnic. 
There!  Now  will  you  be  quiet?  Certainly 
we  had  Sunday-school  picnics ;  our  society  al- 
ways had  one,  and  so  did  the  Baptists  and  the 
Congregationalists  and  the  Methodists,  every- 
one, in  fact,  except  the  Come-Outers,  and  their 
regular  meetings,  being  held  in  the  open  air 
or  in  the  parlors  of  the  members,  were  usually 
more  or  less  in  the  nature  of  picnics,  and  live- 
ly ones,  too.  Sunday-school  picnics  were  good 
fun;  I  admit  it.  But  the  attendance  was 
limited,  only  the  scholars  and  teachers  of  your 
own  faith  being  invited,  whereas  to  the  annual 
picnic  of  the  day-school  came  boys  and  girls 
you  scarcely  knew,  or  had  merely  heard  of; 
youngsters  who  lived  way  "  up  to  the  west- 
'ard,"  in  the  vicinity  of  the  abandoned  salt 
works,  or  in  "  Bassett's  Holler,"  by  the  fish- 
houses  ;  or  in  "  Woodchuck  Lane,"  where  the 
little  one-story  schoolhouse  was  half  hidden 
by  scrub  oaks  and  huckleberry  bushes  and  the 
teacher  was  paid  twenty  dollars  a  month — and 
86 


The  School  Picnic 

earned  it.  Often  there  were  as  many  as  one 
hundred  and  sixty  children  at  the  day-school 
picnic;  the  biggest  crowd  you  ever  saw,  till 
you  grew  older  and  visited  the  County  Cattle 
Show  at  Ostable. 

May  was  the  month  of  the  school  picnic, 
and  the  selection  of  the  date  was  another 
proof  of  the  wisdom  of  the  committee.  May 
was  one  of  the  months  when  the  average 
youngster  in  our  village  had  almost  to  be 
driven  to  school.  It  was,  of  course,  hard  to 
study  in  January,  when  the  "  sliding  down- 
hill "  was  in  its  prime ;  or  in  February,  when 
skating  on  the  schoolhouse  pond  was  at  its 
best,  and  you  swallowed  your  lunch  in  four 
gulps,  with  your  skates  already  strapped  to 
your  feet ;  or  in  early  June,  when  the  water 
was  warm  enough  to  go  in  "  swimmin'  " ;  yes, 
or  in  October,  when  the  shagbarks  were  drop- 
ping in  the  woods ;  or  in  November,  with 
Thanksgiving  so  near.  But  May — school  in 
May  was  cruel! 

You  see  it  was  in  May  that  the  weather 
grew  warm  enough  for  the  windows  to  be 
opened.  There  was  no  fire  built  in  the  school- 

87 


Our  Village 

house  stove.  Some  of  the  toughest  boys — 
fortunate  youngsters  whose  parents  were  poor 
or  shiftless — began  to  go  barefoot  and  to  wig- 
gle their  toes  in  triumph  at  their  shod  and 
envious  brethren.  The  scent  of  new  grass  and 
green  things  drifted  in  on  the  breeze.  Birds 
sang  in  the  orchard  beyond  the  whitewashed 
fence.  It  was  "  nesting  time/'  and  every  male 
in  our  village,  under  the  age  of  fifteen,  had  a 
cherished  collection  of  eggs  and  was  ambi- 
tious to  add  to  it.  Winter  was  over,  spring 
was  in  its  glory,  and  young  blood  stirred  in 
answer  to  its  call.  No  wonder  that  lessons 
limped  and  halted  and  discipline  became  more 
irksome  than  ever. 

And  then,  on  a  forenoon  when  rebellion 
was  most  acute  and  even  the  good  boys 
dreamed  of  "  hooking  jack  "  and  going  "  egg- 
ing," a  dignified  rap  sounded  on  the  school- 
room door.  Teacher,  hastening  to  answer  it, 
admitted  no  less  a  personage  than  Captain 
Benijah  Penniman,  Chairman  of  the  School 
Committee.  And  after  a  brief  consultation 
she  announced  that  Captain  Penniman  would 
address  the  school.  The  captain's  addresses 
88 


The  School  Picnic 

were,  ordinarily, 

pompous     and     dry 

enough  ;  but  now,  as 

you    squared    your 

shoulders    and    put 

your   hands   behind 

you  in  the  attitude 

of    "  attention,"    your    face    and 

those  about  you  were  on  the  broad 

grin.     You  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

He   was   going  to   announce  that  the  school 

picnic  would  be  held  in  Bradley's  Grove  on 

such  and  such  a  day.    Scholars  were  expected 

to  bring  their  own  lunches  and  meet  in  the 

school  yard  at  half  past  eight.    Lemonade  and 

ice  cream  would  be  provided  free.     "  Ahem ! 

I — er — trust  your  behavior  on  that  occasion 

will  be  becoming  and  such  as  to  warrant  the 

committee's — er — generosity  for  another  year. 

Ahem  ! — er — yes." 

Oh,  that  week — the  week  before  the  great 
event !  Seven  days  ?  One  hundred  and  sixty- 
eight  hours?  Humph!  Well,  maybe.  But 
if  every  one  of  those  hours  was  not  a  full 
year  long,  then  you  missed  your  guess.  The 
89 


Our  Village 

copy  in  the  writing  book  affirmed  that  "  Time 
flies,"  and  you  are  willing  to  admit,  now  that 
you  and  the  old  gentleman  with  the  scythe 
are  better  acquainted,  that  there  is  some  truth 
in  the  statement ;  but  during  the  week  preced- 
ing the  school  picnic  you  would  have  sworn 
that  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and 
crawled  under  the  car  to  tinker  with  the  ma- 
chinery. You  spent  the  waking  hours  of  that 
week  with  one  eye  on  the  clock  and  the  other 
on  the  weather. 

The  weather  used  to  mean  so  much  in  our 
village.  When  the  First  Baptist  Society  an- 
nounced their  strawberry  festival  —  "  straw- 
berry vestibule,"  Sylvanus  Cahoon  persisted 
in  calling  it — the  printed  date  on  the  bills  was 
invariably  followed  by  the  line,  "  If  stormy, 
first  pleasant  evening."  And  if  it  should 
storm  on  the  day  set  for  the  picnic! 

But  it  didn't.  As  you  left  the  house,  with 
your  lunch  basket  on  your  arm,  at  a  quarter 
to  eight — you  had  been  up  since  half  past  five 
and  broad  awake  for  an  hour  before  that — 
the  shadow  of  the  big  silver-leaf  in  the  front 
yard  lay  clear  cut,  a  deep-blue  silhouette, 
90 


The  School  Picnic 

across  the  yellow  dust  of  the  road.  The  blos- 
soms from  the  cherry  trees  fluttered  down  in 
perfumed  snow  showers  as  the  fresh  spring 
breeze  stirred  the  branches.  The  scent  of 
lilacs  mingled  with  the  smell  of  doughnuts 
from  the  basket  you  were  carrying.  The 
waves  in  the  bay  were  blue  satin,  with  braided 
edges  of  silver. 

You  started  alone,  but  before  you  reached 
the  school  yard  you  were  one  of  a  joyous 
party.  "  Snuppy  "  Rogers  was  waiting  for 
you  at  his  front  gate  between  the  box  hedges. 
"  Oaks  "  Foster  whistled  between  his  fingers 
and  came  tearing  across  the  pasture  lot. 
"  Crocodile  " — his  dressed-up  name  was  Sam 
Crocker — came  hobbling,  stone  bruise  and  all, 
through  the  lane  by  Simons's.  You  passed  a 
chirruping,  beribboned  party  of  little  girls, 
who  giggled  and  whispered  about  you  behind 
their  hands.  You  paid  no  attention  to  their 
whispers ;  you  disdained  girls — then. 

The  yard  was  crowded.  The  wagons  were 
ready,  the  horses  dozing  by  the  poles.  Im- 
provised benches  had  been  arranged  in  the 
wagons  by  laying  planks  from  side  to  side. 

91 


Our  Village 

Some  of  the  most  calculating  and  forehanded 
children  were  already  roosting  in  desirable 
places  on  the  benches.  Everybody  had  a 
lunch  basket  or  box ;  everybody  was  talking 
or  laughing  at  the  top  of  his  or  her  voice ; 
everybody,  even  the  two  teachers — Mr.  Band- 
inann,  who  taught  "  upstairs  "  in  the  gram- 
mar grades,  and  Miss  Fairtree,  who  presided 
"  downstairs  "  in  the  primary — were  happy. 
Everybody  was  care  free — that  is,  everybody 
except  Zephaniah  Hackett. 

Zephaniah  was  not  care  free — well,  hardly. 
Just  suppose  that  you,  besides  being  janitor  of 
the  schoolhouse  and  sexton  of  the  Congrega- 
tional church,  were  expected  to  provide  ice 
cream — lemon  and  vanilla — for  one  hundred 
and  fifty  children,  not  to  mention  a  dozen 
grown-ups ;  lemonade — enough  lemonade — for 
the  same  crowd ;  had  to  attend  to  the  loading 
of  the  freezers,  the  lemons,  sugar,  glasses, 
tubs,'  and  dishes ;  had  to  see  to  all  these  things 
and  be  responsible  for  them ;  then  suppose  that 
yours  was  a  nervous  temperament,  and  that, 
being  a  bachelor,  you  had  no  children  of  your 
own,  and  consequently  were  not  used  to  hav- 
92 


The  School  Picnic 

ing  them  under  your  feet  and  crawling  up 
your  back  and  shouting  questions  in  your  ear ; 
wouldn't  you  be  a  trifle  ruffled  ?  I  guess  you 
would.  During  the  years  that  have  passed 
since  your  last  school  picnic  you  have  learned 
to  sympathize  with  Zephaniah. 

Mr.  Hackett's  spare  gray  hair  was  tousled. 
His  specs  slid  down  his  perspiring  nose  like 
boats  on  the  water-chutes  at  Coney  Island ; 
and  as  fast  as  he  readjusted  them,  they  were 
off  on  another  coast.  Tin  spoons  jingled 
out  of  his  overflowing  pockets  as  he  rushed 
about.  His  vocal  machinery  needed  oiling 
already. 

"  Hi !  "  he  screamed  hoarsely  to  his  assist- 
ant, Mr.  Gabe  Lumley,  who  was  to  drive  one 
of  the  wagons,  "  where's  them  washtubs  go- 
in'  ?  In  your  wagon  ?  Don't  talk  so  foolish ! 
Ain't  the  freezers  in  there?  And  the  sassers 
and  cups  and  all?  Where  you  goin'  to  stow 
the  folks?  Cal'late  you're  runnin'  a  baggage 
truck,  do  ye  ?  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  YES !  I'm 
a-comin',  Mr.  Bandmann.  G'way  from  me, 
you  little  loons  !  Tramped  on  your  foot !  Well, 
get  your  feet  out  of  the  way!  Ain't  you  got 
93 


Our  Village 

the  whole  yard  to  put  'em  in  without — oh, 
Julius  Caesar !  " 

No,  you  wouldn't  have  been  Mr.  Hackett 
for  anything — except  the  ice  cream  and  the 
lemonade. 

The  wagons  fill;  the  benches  are  crowded 
by  giggling,  squealing  rows.  The  last  strag- 
gler comes  tearing  into  the  yard.  Josiah 
Dimick's  boy?  Not  much.  It  is  only  for 
regular  school  sessions  that  Natty  Dimick  is 
late ;  for  picnics  he  is  the  first  on  the  ground. 
Mr.  Bandmann  rises  from  his  seat  beside  Mr. 
Lumley  to  take  one  last  look.  Zephaniah, 
perched  on  the  tailboard,  wipes  an  agonized 
forehead  and  opines  that  "  Suthin's  been  for- 
got; I  know  it.  Always  have  that  feelin'  and 
never  knew  it  to  fail  to  turn  out  so.  Oh,  zvhy 
in  time  can't  I  get  decent  help !  Expect  one 
man  to,"  etc. 

The  word  is  given.  The  wheels  turn.  We 
are  off! 

Bradley's  Grove  is  away  up  by  Great  Pond, 
ever  so  far — twenty  miles,  or — or — well,  four 
and  a  quarter,  anyhow.  The  road,  ruts  six 
inches  deep,  winds  through  the  pine  groves 

94 


The  School  Picnic 


and  scrub  oaks.  From  the  bald  spot  at  the 
top  of  Myrick's  Hill  you  get  your  last  view 
of  the  bay  and  the  village.  It  is  a  pretty  pic- 
ture, that  view,  but  you  are  too  busy  to  no- 
tice it.  Sam  Eldredge,  on  the  rear  bench,  has 
started  a  pinch  going  and  it  is  your  business 
to  "  pass  it  along." 

A  steep  hill,  Myrick's!  The  horses  have 
to  tug.  What  are  we  stopping  for?  Oh, 
nothing  much !  The  tailboard  has  come 
unfastened  and  Mr.  Hackett  has  been 
spilled  into  the  dust.  No  harm  done.  Just 
his  luck,  he  says,  as  he  clambers  aboard. 
"  Might  'a'  known  that  fool  Gabe  hadn't  got 
gumption  enough  to  hitch  up  a  tailboard. 
Tain't  his  fault  I  ain't  broke  my  everlastin' 
neck." 

The  little  "  Woodchuck  Lane  "  schoolhouse 
has  a  "truck  cart"  full 
of  youngsters,  their  teacher 
with  them,  waiting  before 
it.  The  wagon  falls  in 
behind  ours.  At  the  next 
corner  a  riot  is  plainly  in 
progress.  No,  not  a  riot; 

95 


Our  Village 

merely  the  wagons  from  "  Bassett's  Holler  " 
and  the  school  "  up  to  the  west'ard."  The 
procession  is  a  regular  caravan  by  now,  and 
the  noise — whew  !  A  tiny  gray  "  cottontail  " 
hops  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  takes  one 
look,  and  heads  for  tall  timber.  Wherever 
he  is  going  he  certainly  will  break  the  record 
for  the  distance. 

More  woods  —  and  woods  —  and  woods. 
Then  a  clearing,  and  a  plowed  field.  Then  a 
lone  house,  the  house  of  Cyrus  Bradley,  owner 
of  the  grove.  Fortunate  man!  He  could 
have  a  picnic  every  day  if  he  wanted  to! 

Cyrus  is  waiting  by  the  rail  fence,  where  we 
turn  off  to  go  to  the  pond.  He  has  let  down 
the  bars  already;  a  mean  thing  to  do  when 
there  are  seventy  boys  each  eager  to  perform 
this  important  task.  His  luxuriant  chin  whis- 
kers wave  grandly  in  the  breeze,  "  just  like 
buckwheat,"  so  "  Snuppy  "  Rogers  whispers. 
"  Got  a  fine  day  for  it,  ain't  ye  ?  "  comments  Mr. 
Bradley.  You  bet  you !  Three  cheers  for  the 
day !  Three  cheers  for  Cyrus !  Three  cheers 
for  the  buckwheat  whisk —  S-s-sh-h — behave 
yourselves ! 

96 


*         ' V  - 

The  School  Picnic  ?-_~z^^-  'i 

A  narrow  winding 
through  the  pines, 
their  needles  slap- 
ping you  in  the  face 
as  you  duck  under 
them.  Then  a  sharp 
turn,  and  behold !  below  you,  shin- 
ing in  the  sun,  its  waters  alive  and 
dancing,  its  yellow  beaches  and 
sand  bluffs  decorative  and  color-giving,  green, 
wooded  hills  hemming  it  in — Great  Pond, 
with  Bradley's  Grove  beside  it. 

Only  a  short  ride  now,  but  you  don't  ride. 
Like  "  Foolish  Sol  " — a  local  character  who 
used  to  carry  packages  from  one  town  to  the 
other,  running  at  full 'speed  on  the  railroad 
tracks — you  "  can't  stop  for  the  train."  You 
pile  out  of  the  wagon  and  race,  one  of  a  whoop- 
ing multitude,  down  the  hill  and  into  the  grove. 
The  tall  beeches  reach  out  and  cover  you  with 
their  green-sleeved  arms,  the  noble  oaks  and 
the  birches,  the  latter  spandy  clean  in  new  white 
bark,  pillar  the  high  dome  of  quivering  foliage. 
On  the  pond  and  in  the  fields  it  is  warm  and 
brilliant ;  in  the  grove  all  is  dusky  coolness. 
97 


Our  Village 

The  wagons  enter  one  by  one.  The  passen- 
gers— mostly  teachers  and  the  big  boys  and 
girls ;  all  the  younger  set  got  out  when  you 
did — alight.  Mr.  Bandmann  descends,  calm 
and  dignified.  Zephaniah  slips  from  the  tail- 
board and  becomes  hysterically  busy.  The 
preliminaries  are  over.  The  picnic  has  begun. 

There  are  so  many  things  to  do  all  at  once 
— that  is  the  main  trouble.  Mr.  Hackett  and 
Gabe  Lumiey  are  unloading  the  freezers  and 
tubs  and  dishes,  an  extremely  interesting  proc- 
ess and  one  which  you  would  like  to  watch. 
But  "  Snuppy "  is  on  hand  to  suggest  an 
excursion  after  yellowbirds'  eggs  in  the  thick- 
ets by  the  shore  of  the  pond ;  and  "  Oaks  " 
Foster  knows  where  there  are  likely  to  be 
some  swamp  apples — warty,  watery  excres- 
cences, growing  on  low  bushes,  deliciously 
green  and  indigestible ;  and  "  Crocodile " 
thinks  it  would  be  fun  to  go  off  "  by  ourselves 
somewheres  "  and  have  a  swim ;  and  "  Dodo  " 
Salters  has  brought  a  fish  line  and  proposes 
trying  for  "  punkin'  seeds  "  and  perch ;  and — 
"  Aw,  what  are  we  standin'  round  here  for  ? 
Let's  do  somethin'." 

98 


The  School  Picnic 

The  thickets  are  green  and  tangled  and  de- 
lightful. No  yellowbirds'  nests  in  sight  as 
yet,  but  always  sure  to  be  some  just  a  little 
way  farther  on.  The  ground  under  foot  is 
soggy  and  wet.  Off  come  shoes  and  stock- 
ings. Now  we  can  splash  and  wade  and  en- 
joy ourselves.  Here's  a  swamp  apple  !  Green  ? 
Certainly;  but  enough  for  one  small  bite 
apiece.  Just  as  it  comes  your  turn  to  bite,  the 
worm  inside  sticks  his  head  out.  Never  mind, 
you're  first  on  the  next  one. 

A  sheltered  little  cove,  its  sandy  beach  hid- 
den by  bushes,  and  the  water  so  clear  that  you 
can  see  the  pebbles  and  fresh-water  clams  on 
the  bottom  of  the  very  deepest  hole.  Some- 
times, at  home,  at  bedtime,  it  takes  you  al- 
most a  half  hour  to  undress ;  now  the  slowest 
member  of  the  gang  is  naked  and  neck  deep 
in  five  minutes.  Wheel  but  it's  fine!  You 
swim,  dive,  do  the  "  dog  paddle "  and  the 
"  steamboat."  Likewise  you  "  sound,"  tread- 
ing water  and  holding  your  nose,  then  sinking 
until  one  groping  toe  touches  the  sand,  when 
you  shoot  to  the  surface,  emerging  with  a  sput- 
ter and  a  triumphant  yell  of  "  S-o-o  deep !  " 
99 


Our  Village 

When  you  get  back  to  the  grove,  prepara- 
tions for  dinner  are  in  full  blast.  Zephaniah, 
shirt  sleeves  rolled  above  his  elbows,  is  mak- 
ing the  lemonade.  He  has  a  big,  two-handled 
squeezer  and  the  yellow  juice  spatters  in  the 
bottom  of  the  washtub.  It  makes  your  mouth 
pucker  to  watch  him.  The  teachers  and  the 
big  girls  are  spreading  cloths  on  the  ground 
in  the  largest  clear  space.  Nonsense,  of 
course!  What's  the  use  of  tablecloths  at  a 
picnic?  Why  don't  they  have  dinner  now — 
now? 

Well,  they  do  at  last.  You  gather  about 
the  cloths,  kneeling  or  sitting  "  tailor  fash- 
ion "  on  the  moss  and  the  leaves.  Covers 
come  off  the  lunch  baskets.  Ah,  these  mothers 
of  ours!  Who  but  a  mother  would  spend 
hours  of  a  busy  day  in  preparing  stuffed  eggs 
and  sandwiches  and  apple  puffs  and  cake? 
Cake?  There  are  no  less  than  seventy-five 
different  kinds  of  cake  in  those  baskets  and 
boxes,  and  every  kind  light,  feathery,  and  de- 
licious. You  eat  it  all,  all  you  can  get,  but 
you  do  not  then  appreciate  the  love  and  self- 
denial  animating  the  tired  hands  which  made 

100 


The  School  Picnic 

it.  Now  you  do,  now  when  those  hands  have 
been  at  rest  for  so  many  years. 

You've  eaten  all  you  can  possibly  stuff  and 
have  moistened  the  cargo  with  two  tin  cupfuls 
of  lemonade.  Therefore  you  are  ready  for  the 
ice  cream,  which  the  ubiquitous  Hackett  is 
dealing  out.  His  is  certainly  a  bully  job — 
none  better — but,  like  all  great  men  filling  re- 
sponsible positions,  Zephaniah  has  his  trou- 
bles. 

"  Hey  ?  Well,  wait  a  minute,  can't  ye  ?  " 
he  inquires,  brandishing  a  saucer  in  one  hand 
and  an  iron  spoon  in  the  other.  "  Hold  on  till 
it's  your  turn !  I  never  see  such  a  gang  of 
young  hogs  in  my  born  days.  All  right !  All 
right!  Which'll  it  be — lamon  or  vanilla? 
Lamon,  you  said?  There  you  be!  Clear  off 
my  feet!  Mr.  Bandmann,  for  the  land  sakes 
make  a  couple  million  of  these  young  ones 
keep  in  line,  can't  ye  ?  " 

You  had  a  great  scheme,  product  of  "  Croc- 
odile's "  inventive  brain,  by  which  you  were 
to  obtain  both  kinds  of  ice  cream.  You  were 
to  get  the  lemon  first,  swallow  it  as  quick  as 
possible,  hide  your  saucer  and  spoon  in  the 
8  101 


Our  Village 

bushes  and  then  line  up  once  more,  innocent 
and  bland,  to  be  helped  to  vanilla;  the  sup- 
position being  that  Mr.  Hackett,  in  the  rush 
of  his  occupation,  would  not  remember  and 
would  think  it  was  your  first  trip.  It  was  a 
good  plan  and  might  have  worked — if  it  had 
not  been  for  teacher. 

However,  you  get  enough — quite  enough. 
You  were  there  to  eat  and  you  have  fulfilled 
your  destiny.  Trifles,  such  as  crawling  cater- 
pillers  and  investigating  bugs,  may  annoy  fin- 
icky and  foolish  folks  like  women  and  girls — 
may  even  prevent  their  enjoyment  of  ice 
cream  and  lemonade — but  a  boy's  appetite  is 
bug  proof.  If  an  insect  is  swallowed,  so 
much  the  worse  for  it,  that's  all. 

After  dinner  is  a  more  or  less  restful  time. 
You  have  no  craving  for  that  widely  adver- 
tised panacea  which  will  do  away  with  "  that 
full  feeling  after  eating."  To  feel  full  is  to 
be  full,  and  to  be  full  is  the  proper  and  bliss- 
ful state  following  a  picnic  meal.  You  loll 
about  and  talk  and  laugh.  The  smaller  girls 
made  wreaths  of  oak  and  holly  leaves,  ridicu- 
lous contraptions  with  which  they  would  dec- 

IO2 


The  School  Picnic 

orate  you  if  you  would  let  them.  But  you're 
no  sissy,  like  Gussie  Ellis,  the  Sunday-school 
superintendent's  boy.  His  hair  is  curly  and 
he  likes — actually  likes — to  play  with  girls. 
Think  of  it ! 

But  Gussie  is  not  the  only  boy  at  that  picnic 
who  likes  girls,  evidently  not.  The  big  fellows 
of  sixteen  or  seventeen — those  in  the  back 
seats  of  Mr.  Bandmann's  "  upstairs  "  school- 
room— are  talking  or  walking  about  with  the 
damsels  in  muslin  and  ribbons,  girls  old 
enough,  almost,  to  put  their  hair  up,  and 
whose  dresses  reach  their  shoe  tops.  Cou- 
ple after  couple  stroll  away  along  the  beach 
of  the  pond  or  under  the  oaks.  Softies ! 
Wouldn't  it  make  you  sick! 

Ah,  well!  there  were  picnics,  picnics  of  a 
later  time,  when  you,  too,  strolled  under  the 
trees  with  a  being  radiant  in  ruffles  and  rib- 
bons. And  you  enjoyed  it,  too,  even  though 
you  were  bashfully  conscious  of  not  knowing 
what  to  say,  and  painfully  aware  that  your 
new  shoes  were  a  size  too  small.  There  was  one 
girl  in  particular  whose  eyes  were  as  black 
and  deep  as  the  water  in  the  well  at  home  and 
103 


Our  Village 

with  the  same  liquid  sparkle  in  them.  She 
was  slender  and  moved  with  the  grace  of  a 
blown  dandelion  puff.  Her  hair  was  brown 
and  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon.  You  stole  that 
ribbon  and  refused  to  give  it  back,  in  spite  of 
her  not  too  strenuous  protests.  You  said  you 
were  going  to  keep  it  always.  Goodness 


knows  where  it  is  now.,    And  when  you  met 
her  during  "  Old  Home  Week  "  last  summer, 
she  looked  as  if  she  might  weigh  two  hun- 
dred pounds,  and  she  said  she  wouldn't  have 
known  you  because  you  had  grown  so  bald. 
On  the  little  knoll  overlooking  the  pond,  the 
grown  folks — the  teachers  and  Mr.  Hackett 
and  Gabe — are  talking  lazily.     Zephaniah  is 
104 


The  School  Picnic 

telling  of  other  picnics  in  that  grove,  when  he 
was  a  boy,  and  later.  He  tells  one  story 
which  is  a  local  tradition ;  you  have  heard 
your  mother  tell  it.  How,  in  the  old  times 
when  our  village  was  the  home  of  seafaring 
men,  retired  or  active,  a  gay  party  came  to 
Great  Pond  on  a  picnic.  And  a  young  sea 
captain  and  his  bride,  a  lovely  girl,  were  there. 
They,  with  some  others,  went  out  sailing  on 
the  pond,  the  boat  was  upset  by  a  sudden 
squall,  and  her  laughing,  happy  passengers 
were  thrown  into  the  water.  All  were  saved 
but  one,  the  beautiful  young  bride.  She,  it  is 
supposed,  was  pinned  down  by  the  sail,  and 
sank.  "  And,"  says  Zephaniah,  "  when  they 
got  her  out  she  was  drownded  dead.  And 
I'll  never  get  the  sight  of  her  husband's  face 
off  my  mind — never !  " 

It  was  a  sad  story,  and  sadder  than  ever 
now,  as  the  sun  sinks  and  the  shadows  of  the 
hills  beyond  are  thrown  duskily  on  the  water. 
It  makes  you  shiver — although  possibly  the 
swamp  apples  and  sweet  flag  and  lemonade 
and  ice  cream  with  which  you  are  freighted 
are  contributing  toward  your  inward  uneasi- 
105 


Our  tillage 

ness.  At  any  rate  you  do  not  complain  when 
the  order  is  given  to  harness  the  horses  for 
the  homeward  ride. 

The  wagons  move  out  of  the  grove.  The 
twilight  deepens.  Fireflies  twinkle  and  dance, 
like  drifting  sparks  blown  from  dying  fires, 
amidst  the  thickets  where  you  hoped  to  find 
the  birds'  nests.  You  wouldn't  go  there  now 
for  anything.  The  frogs  begin  their  evening 
serenade  of  warning,  the  little  "  pinkwinks  " 
furnishing  the  shrill  soprano  and  the  great 
bull-throated  chaps  along  the  pond's  edges 
booming  the  bass. 

Deep — deep  !  deep — deep  !  deep — deep  ! 
Better  go  'round!     Better  go  'round! 

The  stars  are  lighted  up  one  by  one.  A 
mist  rises  all  about.  The  thought  of  the  cozy 
sitting  room  at  home  comes  to  your  mind  and 
is  attractive. 

The  woods  are  blots  of  blackness  framing 
the  narrow  ribbon  of  road.  The  breeze  has  a 
damp,  sweet,  night  odor.  In  the  leading  wag- 
on some  one  begins  to  sing  "  Seeing  Nellie- 
Home,"  and  the  plaintive  melody  is  taken  up 
106 


The  School  Picnic 

along  the  line.  Then  follows  "  The  Spanish 
Cavalier  "  and  "  Tavern  in  the  Town,"  and, 
of  course  and  always,  "  Home  Again  from  a 
Foreign  Shore." 

Our  house,  the  back  part  of  it,  is  alight  and 
inviting.  You  shout  your  good  nights  and 
tumble  out  of  the  wagon.  The  side  door,  the 
door  under  the  lattice  of  wistaria  and  morn- 
ing-glory vines,  swings  wide  and  on  its  thresh- 
old stands  some  one  who  kisses  you  and  asks : 
"  Well,  did  you  have  a  good  time,  dearie  ?  " 

Oh,  me !  if  just  once  more  you  might  alight 
at  that  door  and  be  welcomed  by  that  some 
one.  Would  your  answer  then,  even  though 
you  were  ever  so  tired  and  sleepy,  be  careless 
or  cross?  No!  no,  indeed!  But  that  door  is 
shut,  forever  and  ever  shut. 

The  last  you  hear  from  the  wagons  as  they 
rattle  along  the  main  road  is  Zephaniah  Hack- 
ett's  wail  from  his  perch  on  the  last  tailboard 
of  all. 

"  By  thunder  mighty !  I'm  clean  wore  and 
petered  out.  I  wisht  to  the  everlastin'  there 
wan't  no  such  things  as  school  picnics." 

Zephaniah  would  have  his  wish  if  he  were 
107 


Our  Village 

living  now.  There  are  no  more  day-school 
picnics  in  our  village.  There  are  picnics,  of 
course,  there  and  all  over  this  big  country  ; 
your  own  boy  is  going  to  one  next  week  and 
is  exultant. 

"  We're  going  to  the  big  park,  pa,"  he 
crows.  "  And  there  are  merry-go-rounds  and 
all  sorts  of  fun.  We  are  going  in  special  trol- 
ley cars.  Hurrah !  " 

He  doesn't  know  any  better ;  he  hasn't  had 
your  advantages.  So  you  smother  your  pity 
and  try  to  enthuse  with  him.  But  to  picnic 
in  a  park,  after  riding  in  a  trolley !  Mercy  on 
us !  what  is  the  world  coming  to  ? 


OUR  OLDEST   INHABITANT 


OUR   OLDEST    INHABITANT 

WHEN  you  were  a  small  boy  in  our  village 
and  "  Snuppy"  Rogers  was  your  chum, 
it  happened  that  Snuppy 's  father  went  away 
out  West,  to  a  place  called  Chicago,  on  a  visit. 
His  going  created  a  sensation  and  developed 
arrogance  and  boastfulness  in  his  son  and 
heir.  It  is  true  that  the  men  folks  in  our  vil- 
lage— the  majority  of  them — were  constantly 
going  to  and  arriving  from  places  much  far- 
ther off  than  Chicago,  places  like  Surinam 
and  Calcutta  and  Mauritius  and  Hongkong, 
but  this  was  because  they  were  sea  captains 
and  travel  is  a  necessary  bother  pertaining  to 
that  profession.  To  go  to  Chicago  by  rail, 
III 


Our  Village 

and  purely  for  pleasure,  was  different,  vastly 
different.  Besides,  Snuppy's  father  was  not 
a  sea  captain,  being  merely  a  wheelwright  and 
carriage  painter,  and  was  therefore  neither 
aristocratic  nor  "  well  off."  "  How  those 
Rogerses  can  afford  it,"  was  the  prevailing 
topic  at  sewing  circle. 

How  they  could  afford  it  you  may  not  at- 
tempt to  answer  even  at  this  late  day,  when 
the  person  claiming  to  be  Snuppy  is  portly 
and  bald  and  prosperous,  with  seven  or  eight 
boys  and  girls  of  his  own.  But  you  distinctly 
remember  that  when  Rogers,  Senior,  returned 
to  our  village  he  brought  with  him,  among 
other  things,  several  copies  of  a  then  new 
comic  weekly,  and  in  one  of  these  copies  was 
an  intensely  humorous  article  concerning  an 
individual  called  "  The  Oldest  Inhabitant." 

The  "  oldest  inhabitant  "  was  represented  in 
the  article  and  pictures  as  a  red-nosed  veteran 
with  sunken  lips  and  a  fringe  of  throat  whisk- 
er, who  wore  a  tippet  and  a  frowzy  cap  with 
earlaps,  and  sat  with  cowhide  boots  braced 
against  the  stove  at  the  "  store,"  where  he 
reeled  off  marvelous  yarns  concerning  the 

112 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

hard  winter  of  '38  and  the  days  when  he  could 
"  lick  ary  two  men  in  the  county  and  think 
nawthin'  of  it."  "  They  don't  raise  them  kind 
of  boys  nowadays,"  he  proclaimed  in  queru- 
lous challenge.  Then  he  borrowed  a  "  chaw," 
helped  himself  to  crackers  and  cheese  at  the 
storekeeper's  expense,  and  went  on  to  deliver 
a  prevarication  that  filled  a  column  and  a 
quarter,  exclusive  of  cuts. 

The  other  loungers — in  that  comic-weekly 
store — winked  at  each  other  behind  his  back 
and  egged  him  on  to  other  and  loftier  flights 
of  romance.  A  young  man  named  Ezra  Hay- 
seed, who  appeared  to  be  a  dreadful  cut-up, 
sewed  his  coat  tails  together  behind  his  chair. 
A  kindred  spirit  put  a  bunch  of  firecrackers 
beneath  it.  The  oldest  inhabitant's  story  con- 
cluded with  a  burst  of  fireworks  and  lan- 
guage, and  the  article  ended  as  the  other  loaf- 
ers were  congratulating  Mr.  Hayseed  and  his 
friend  upon  the  success  of  their  joke.  As  for 
the  oldest  inhabitant,  he  departed,  minus  the 
lower  half  of  his  coat,  presumably  to  return 
to  the  asylum  for  feeble-minded  from  which 
he  had  escaped. 


Our  Village 

You  and  Snuppy  enjoyed  the  article.  Its 
humor  was  of  the  knockdown  variety  and  un- 
derstandable, not  like  the  things  He  said  and 
She  replied  to  in  that  same  periodical.  You 
wished  there  was  an  oldest  inhabitant  of  that 
kind  in  our  village,  so  that  you  or — this  would 
be  safer — some  of  the  big  boys  who  sat  in  the 
back  seats  at  school  might  sew  and  blow  him 
up. 

But  when  you  came  to  talk  it  over  you  ran 
into  a  snag. 

"Oldest  inhabitant,"  said  Snuppy.  "Old- 
est inhabitant  ?  Why,  that  must  mean  the  old- 
est man  in  town,  like — like  Deacon  Pepper. 
Seems  to  me  I  heard  pa  call  him  that  once. 
Cracky!  Nobody'd  dast  to  blow  him  up." 

You  should  say  not.  Deacon  Pepper,  tall 
and  whitebearded  and  bespectacled,  who  wore 
a  high  hat  and  carried  a  gold-headed  cane, 
who  was  a  pillar  of  the  Baptist  church!  As 
soon  think  of  playing  tricks  on  St.  Peter. 
And  yet,  as  you  learned  by  inquiry,  Deacon 
Pepper  was  our  oldest  inhabitant. 

You  spoke  to  Uncle  Seth  about  it.  Uncle 
Seth  was  fifty-five  or  so,  but  you  never  would 
114 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

have  guessed  it ;  he  was  so  jolly  and  lively  and 
full  of  fun. 

"  Yes,"  said  Uncle  Seth,  "  Deacon  Pepper  is 
our  oldest  inhabitant  now.  He's  nearly  ninety. 
Before  him  it  was  Parson  Simpkins.  I  re- 
member  " 

Uncle  Seth's  remembrances  of  Parson 
Simpkins  were  many  and  various.  He  re- 
membered the  Sundays  of  long  ago — the  old- 
fashioned  Puritanical  Sunday  or  "  Sabba' 
Day,"  as  grandma  used  to  call  it.  The  Sab- 
bath that  began  on  sunset  of  a  Saturday  and 
ended,  so  far  as  its  strict  observance  was  con- 
cerned, at  dusk  on  the  day  following.  Before 
the  little  meetin'  house  on  the  hill  had  been 
modernized  and  fixed  over.  When  its  high, 
pews  had  doors  to  them,  and  the  minister  went 
up  a  winding  stair  to  reach  the  pulpit.  When 
a  sermon  was  expected  to  last  an  hour  and  a 
half  or  the  congregation  thought  it  was  not 
getting  its  money's  worth.  When  there  wasn't 
any  Sunday-school.  When  a  fiddle  and  a  bass 
viol  furnished  the  instrumental  music  and 
Elder  Ryder  led  the  singing,  beating  time  with 
his  tuning  fork. 


Our  Village 

He  remembered  when  Cap'n  Sam  Berry, 
who  made  his  money  swapping  glass  beads 
and  empty  bottles  for  copra  and  pearls  over  in 
the  South  Seas,  presented  the  church  with  the 
new  organ.  He  remembered  the  row  that  en- 
sued, a  division  that  came  near  to  splitting  the 
society  in  twain.  How  Deacon  Issachar  Snow 
"  riz  right  up  "  in  his  pew  to  denounce  the  in- 
novation. 

"  Ain't  it  enough,"  demanded  Issachar,  "  to 
have  fiddles  and  such  squealin'  in  the  sanc- 
tuary without  drowndin'  the  hymn  tunes  with 
the  devil's  pitch  pipes?  Do  you  s'pose  the 
Almighty  likes  to  hear  such  bull's  bellerin'? 
Organ!  Might  as  well  have  a  pianner  and 
play  dance  music !  " 

But  the  organ  came,  and  years  afterwards, 
when  you  went  to  church,  Deacon  Issachar's 
granddaughter  played  it. 

Uncle  Seth  liked  to  tell  of  the  old  Sabbaths. 
How  the  meeting  house  was  crowded  and  the 
sheds  were  filled  with  "  teams,"  and  carryalls 
and  chaises  stood  all  about  the  churchyard. 
How  Nathaniel  Baker's  family  —  nine  chil- 
dren, eight  of  them  boys  —  used  to  trudge 
116 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 


barefoot  all  the  way  from  ' 
the  west  end  of  the  town, 
three  good  miles,  carry- 
ing their  shoes  and  stock- 
ings in  their  hands,  and 
then  put  them  on  be- 
fore going  into  meeting. 
They  always  took  them 
off  again  when  they  came 
out,  for  Nathaniel  was  a  poor  man  and  shoe 
leather  cost  money. 

It  was  a  solemn  occasion  when  Parson 
Simpkins  came  to  a  house  for  a  pastoral  call. 
There  were  prayers,  of  course,  and  reading 
from  the  Scriptures,  but,  before  these,  "  re- 
freshments "  were  served — fruit  cake  and  sev- 
eral other  kinds  of  cake,  and  invariably  for 
the  "  grown-ups  "  a  dram  of  New  England 
rum  from  the  decanter  in  the  parlor  closet. 
"  The  parson's  closet,"  they  used  to  call  it 
then.  To  you  this  part  of  Uncle  Seth's  story 
was  the  most  fascinating  of  all,  because  it 
sounded  so  wicked.  Since  Parson  Simpkins's 
day  total  abstinence  had  become  the  rule  in 
our  village.  Only  the  no-accounts,  like  the 
9  117 


Our  Village 

proprietor  of  the  billiard,  pool,  and  sipio  par- 
lors and  his  regular  customers,  ever  drank  liq- 
uor. They  usually  "  had  a  jug  come  down  " 
before  the  Fourth  and  at  Christmas,  and  the 
selectmen  were  busy  and  the  town  lock-up 
occupied  for  the  week  following. 

You  listened  to  Uncle  Seth's  yarns  with  in- 
terest, but  your  mind  was  busy  with  a  per- 
plexing problem.  There  was  something  you 
didn't  understand. 

"  Uncle  Seth,"  you  interrupted,  "  Mr.  Zach 
Taylor,  down  to  the  Neck,  is  older'n  Deacon 
Pepper,  ain't  he  ?  Why  ain't  he  the  oldest  in- 
habitant ?  " 

"  Humph !  "  grunted  Uncle  Seth.  "  Yes,  I 
cal'late  Zach  is  a  year  or  two  older;  but  no- 
body thinks  of  calling  him  the  '  oldest  inhabi- 
tant.' I  don't  know  exactly  why,  nuther,  but 
they  don't." 

That  was  true,  they  didn't.  "  Old  Zach  " 
was  a  character  in  his  way,  but  he  was  always 
Old  Zach,  nothing  more.  Our  village  liked 
to  talk  about  Old  Zach,  liked  to  tell  stories 
about  him — how,  when  the  wife  with  whom 
he  had  lived  and  fought  for  fifty  odd  years 
118 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

died,  and  he  was  too  poor  to  give  her  fit- 
ting burial,  some  of  the  kind-hearted  towns- 
people raised  a  purse,  bought  a  handsome 
coffin,  and  decorated  the  tumble-down  shanty 
with  flowers.  Next  day  they  called  to  cheer 
the  bereaved  one  in  his  solitude.  They  found 
him  striding  up  and  down  before  the  door,  his 
face  lit  up  with  pride. 

"  I  tell  ye,"  cried  Old  Zach,  seizing  the 
hand  of  a  sympathizer,  "  that  was  a  d — n  good 
funeral,  and  I'll  bet  the  old  woman  is  tellin' 
'em  so  up  aloft." 

No,  Old  Zach's  was  not  the  head  to  in- 
herit the  crown  of  "  oldest  inhabitant."  And 
"  Old  Howes/'  though  he  lived  to  be  nearly 
one  hundred,  never  wore  it.  When  Old 
Howes  was  eighty  he  could  stand  in  one  cran- 
berry barrel  and  jump  from  it  into  another — 
was  willing  to  do  it,  too,  provided  the  reward, 
in  the  shape  of  a  drink  or  a  chew,  was  forth- 
coming. He  wore  white  whiskers,  stained  a 
vivid  yellow  about  the  mouth,  and  had  been 
to  sea  in  a  ship  so  big  you  could  "  heave  a 
dog  through  the  hawse  holes." 

"Did  you  ever  do  it,  Mr.  Howes?"  asked 


Our  Village 

one  interested  juvenile  who  had  listened  to 
this  statement. 

"Do?    Do 'what?" 

"  Why — why,  heave  the  dog  through  ?  " 

"  What  in  time  would  I  be  doin'  that  for  ? 
S'pose  a  man  don't  have  nawthin'  to  do 
aboard  ship  but  chuck  dogs  around  ?  " 

"  But  you  said " 

"  Hush  up,  or  I'll  heave  you  out  the  win- 
der!" 

Nobody  ever  spoke  of  Old  Howes  as  the 
oldest  inhabitant.  Nor  of  "  Old  Higgins " 
either,  for  that  matter.  In  fact,  the  latter 
celebrity  was  most  commonly  nicknamed  "  Old 
Beauregard,"  for  reasons  unexplained,  and  he 
drove  a  more  or  less  white  ox  in  a  more  or 
less  green  chaise.  It  was  "  Old  Beauregard  " 
who  entered  the  shop  of  a  local  merchant — a 
newcomer  in  our  village  and  unacquainted 
with  its  characters — and  asked  for  a  plug  of 
tobacco.  Receiving  it,  he  turned  and  started 
for  the  door. 

"  But — but,"  stammered  the  storekeeper, 
"  haven't  you  forgotten  to  leave  the  money  ?  " 

"  Money !  "  snorted  Old  Beauregard,  with 
1 20 


V 


Don't  talk  to  me  about  money  these  hard  times!'" 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

withering  scorn.  "  Don't  talk  to  me  about 
money  these  hard  times !  " 

Then  he  departed  with  the  tobacco. 

It  was  Old  Beauregard  also  who  made  anx- 
ious inquiries  of  this  same  storekeeper,  assert- 
ing that  he  wanted  to  find  "  a  good,  respon- 
sible man  to  borrer  ten  dollars  of."  He  died 
at  the  age  of  ninety- four,  proudly  boasting  that 
no  person  in  the  country  owed  more  than  he 
did.  But  he  was  never  the  oldest  inhabitant. 

And  to  no  woman  was  the  title  given.  This 
includes  Aunt  Hannah  Cahoon,  who  lived  to 
be  one  hundred  and  three,  who  smoked  a  pipe, 
and  believed  in  signs  and  omens — openly  pro- 
claimed her  belief  to  the  minister,  at  that — 
and  whose  gravestone  in  the  no'theast  corner 
of  the  Methodist  burying  ground  is  still 
pointed  out  to  strangers.  Uncle  Seth  could  re- 
member Aunt  Hannah  when  she  was  younger. 
Could  remember  her  sister,  who  was  a  "Jump- 
ing Come-Outer,"  a  sect  whose  religious  fer- 
vor manifested  itself  in  sudden  and  unex- 
pected seizures,  during  which  the  ecstatic 
devotee  leaped  and  shrieked  and  pranced. 

Once   when  Abitha,   this   was  the   sister's 

121 


Our  Village 


name,  had,  in  the  midst  of  a  Saturday's  bak- 
ing, been  "  seized "  and  was  performing  in 
the  front  yard,  to  the  scandal  or  amusement 
of  the  neighbors,  Hannah  calmly  emerged 
from  the  kitchen  door,  carrying  a  bucket.  She 
went  to  the  well,  drew  the  bucket  full  of  icy 
water,  and  then  poured  its  contents  over  her 
"  Come-Outer  "  sister. 

"  There's  a  time  for  all  things,  Abbie,"  she 
observed,  "  even  for  religion ;  and  Saturday 
mornin'  is  bakin'  time.  If  that  don't  make 
you  remember  that  them  pies  of  yours  are 
burnin',  I'll  go  fetch  another  bucket." 

Aunt  Hannah  was  locally  famous  for  this 
and  for  many  other  eccentricities,  but  while 
she  was  yet  alive,  and  her  tongue  the  terror  of 
the  neighborhood,  Cap'n  Abel  Doane,  a  mere 
infant  of  eighty-six,  was  our  oldest  inhabitant. 
An  illusive  honor  this,  and  the  rea- 
sons which  led  to  its  bestowal  hard 
to  analyze.  In  Deacon  Pepper's  case, 
you  would  have  decided  that,  to  be 
our  oldest  inhabitant,  one  must  be 
dignified  and  church-go- 
ing, a  member  of  the 

122 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

majority   party   in    politics,    and,   probably,   a 
selectman. 

But  Cap'n  Doane,  though  dignified  enough 
— to  hear  him  blow  his  nose  as  he  marched 
up  the  street  was  a  warning  for  low  people 
and  underlings  to  clear  the  way — was  dis- 
tinctly not  church-going,  and  in  politics  was 
always  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fence. 
During  the  war  he  was  the  local  "  copper- 
head," and  was  more  than  once  "  shivareed  " 
by  the  patriotic  loafers  and  small  boys.  He 
couldn't  have  been  elected  selectman,  and  he 
knew  it ;  therefore  he  was  a  perennial  candi- 
date. He  opposed  all  popular  measures  in 
town  meeting  and  championed  all  unpopular 
ones.  He  was  most  cordially  hated,  but  was 
universally  respected,  and  lived  his  lonely  life 
out  in  his  own  gruff,  hard  way.  And  when 
he  died,  his  funeral  was  attended  by  nearly 
every  person  in  the  village,  and  there  were 
some  present  who  wondered  where,  now  that 
he  was  gone,  their  winter  fuel  was  to  come 
from  or  the  money  necessary  for  their  chil- 
dren's shoes  and  clothes.  He  had  thrown  his 
charity  at  them,  as  he  might  have  thrown  a 
123 


Our  Village 

bone  at  a  stray  dog,  but  no  one  but  themselves 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  thrown. 

Now,  as  you  look  back  at  our  village's  choice 
of  its  oldest  inhabitant,  it  seems  to  you  that 
Cap'n  Eben  Bailey  graced  the  position  best  of 
all.  He  is  the  ideal  by  which  you  measure 
all  the  others.  And  yet  Cap'n  Eben  was  not 
dignified  and  "  churchy "  like  Deacon  Pep- 
per, nor  rich  and  arrogant  like  Cap'n  Doane. 
Cap'n  Eben  wasn't  even  a  sea  captain — 
though  he  had  been  one — but  only  a  store- 
keeper, and  not  a  very  prosperous  store- 
keeper, at  that.  People  didn't  take  their  hats 
off  to  him,  as  they  did  to  the  deacon,  and  they 
didn't  fear  him,  as  they  did  Cap'n  Abel.  But 
among  all  your  memories  of 'our  village  there 
isn't  one  of  an  ill-natured,  unkind  word  spoken 
by  rich  or  poor  concerning  Cap'n  Eben  Bailey. 

Time  had  been  when  Cap'n  Eben  was  de- 
clared to  be  "  one  of  the  smartest,  likeliest 
young  shipmasters  that  ever  trod  a  deck."  He 
went  to  sea,  as  cabin  boy,  when  he  was  thir- 
teen. At  nineteen  he  was  first  mate  of  an 
Australian  clipper.  At  twenty-two  he  com- 
manded that  same  clipper.  He  took  as  pas- 
124 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

senger  the  first  American  consul  from  the 
United  States  to  Melbourne.  He  and  the  con- 
sul became  great  friends  during  the  voyage, 
and  the  friendship  lasted  until  the  latter's 
death.  This  consul  liked  Australia  so  well 
that  he  decided  to  make  it  his  home,  and  he 
and  Cap'n  Eben  corresponded  for  many  years. 

When  he  was  thirty-five  Cap'n  Eben  mar- 
ried one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  our  village; 
years  younger  than  he,  she  was,  but  everyone 
said  how  lucky  Susannah  Coffin  was  to  get 
such  a  fine  husband.  Susannah's  people  made 
a  great  wedding  for  her — a  church  wedding 
— something  unusual  in  those  days — and  then 
she  and  the  captain  left  our  village  on  the 
packet  for  Boston,  where  they  were  to  go 
aboard  Cap'n  Eben's  ship  and  set  sail  on  a 
honeymoon  voyage  to  Batavia  and  Samarang 
and  Singapore,  and  goodness  knows  how 
many  other  queer-sounding  and  outlandish 
places.  A  number  of  friends  of  the  bridal 
couple  went  with  them  to  Boston  to  say 
good-by. 

There  were  no  cables  in  those  old  times, 
which  so  many  call  "  good  "  without  mean- 
125 


Our  Village 

ing  it,  and  months  and 
months  passed  during 
which  our  village  went 
about  its  business  and 
only  remembered  Cap'n 
Eben  and  his  bride  oc- 
casionally. But  at  last 
came  letters  to  the  Coffins 
and  the  Baileys,  letters  from  Batavia.  The 
ship  had  reached  that  port  safely,  the  voyage 
had  been  pleasant,  both  were  well  and  would 
write  again  from  Singapore. 

Then  for  a  long  time  nothing  was  heard, 
and  when,  after  the  anxious  waiting,  news  did 
come,  it  was  sad  enough.  Somewhere  in  the 
Java  Sea  the  ship  had  been  struck  by  a  ty- 
phoon. She  emerged  from  the  vortex  of  this 
storm,  battered,  dismasted,  and  sinking.  The 
officers  and  crew  took  to  the  boats,  but  the 
waves  were  still  high  and  the  wind  and  rain 
not  yet  over.  It  was  night  and  very  dark  and 
the  boats  became  separated.  In  Cap'n  Eben's 
boat,  with  him,  were  his  wife  and  four  sea- 
men. 

Some  time  during  that  night,  and  without 
126 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

warning,  a  giant  wave  caught  the  boat  under 
the  stern  and  pitch-poled  her,  end  over  end. 
She  floated,  bottom  up,  but  of  those  who  had 
been  in  her  only  two  came  to  the  surface  and 
seized  her  keel.  Cap'n  Eben  and  a  young 
sailor.  The  others  had  been  thrown  far  from 
the  boat  and  had  gone  down  at  once. 

In  the  letters,  written  by  kind-hearted  Eng- 
lish-speaking people  at  Singapore,  which  told 
all  this,  were  also  written  fragments  of  the 
story  of  that  night  and  the  next  day  as  nar- 
rated by  Cap'n  Eben's  companion,  the  sailor. 
The  frantic  skipper,  thinking  that  perhaps 
his  wife  might  have  risen  beneath  the  over- 
turned boat,  dived  repeatedly.  He  was  nearly 
exhausted  when  morning  dawned  over  a  roll- 
ing, oily  sea  and  with  a  fiery  sun  beating  down 
upon  the  heads  of  the  two  men. 

At  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  they  were 
picked  up  by  a  Dutch  trading  bark  bound  up 
the  Madagascar  Straits.  The  sailor  was  in 
fairly  good  condition,  considering  what  he 
had  endured,  but  Cap'n  Eben  was  suffering 
from  partial  sunstroke  and  was  raving.  Now, 
the  letter  said,  he  was  being  cared  for  at 
127 


Our  Village 

Singapore  and  was  gaining  in  strength,  but 
his  mind  seemed  to  be  gone.  He  remembered 
little  and  was  like  a  child. 

And  like  a  child  he  was  brought  home  a 
year  later  by  a  brother  of  his  dead  wife,  whom 
the  families  had  sent  on  for  the  purpose.  His 
brown  hair  had  broad  gray  streaks  in  it,  and 
he  would  sit  for  hours  on  the  porch  before 
his  home,  gazing  dreamily  at  the  elm  trees 
across  the  road  and  speaking  to  no  one. 

Little  by  little  his  faculties  returned,  but  he 
never  was  the  energetic  man  he  had  been  and 
he  never  went  to  sea  again.  He  was  always 
glad  to  see  callers,  but  he  never  mentioned 
his  dead  wife  or  the  shipwreck.  That  por- 
tion of  his  life  had  been,  apparently,  wiped 
from  his  memory. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  he  began  reading 
the  Bible ;  reading  it  and  accepting  and  inter- 
preting its  every  line  with  a  literal  earnestness 
which  was  odd,  to  say  the  least.  When  his 
sister  died  he  mourned  for  her  in  sackcloth 
and  ashes,  as  David  mourned  for  Absalom. 
They  found  him  dressed  in  old  gunny  bags, 
seated  on  the  family  ash  heap,  and  though  this 
128 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

would  have  been  funny  enough  in  anyone  else, 
no  one  laughed  at  Cap'n  Eben. 

Long  afterwards,  when  you  knew  him,  he 
was  bent  and  white-haired  and  very  deaf.  But 
his  kind  old  face  was  as  calm  and  sweetly 


placid  as  that  of  a  saint.  Of  his  eccentricities 
but  one  remained :  he  believed  that  he  should 
live  forever  on  this  earth. 

"-If  ye  believe  in  Me,"  had  said  the  Man 

of  Galilee,  "  ye  shall  never  die."     And  surely 

Cap'n  Eben  believed  in  Him.     No  one,  not 

even  the  minister,  who  was  suspected  of  "  ad- 

129 


Our  Village 

vanced  ideas,"  ever  attempted  to  argue  the 
cap'n  out  of  his  conviction  of  a  material  im- 
mortality. It  couldn't  have  been  done,  in  the 
first  place,  and,  if  it  could,  who  had  the  heart 
to  shatter  such  a  beautiful  dream? 

The  sights  and  smells  of  Cap'n  Eben's 
stuffy  little  store  linger  with  you  yet.  The 
calico  and  dress  goods  were  piled  beside  the 
cigar  and  tobacco  show  case.  There  were 
jars  of  striped  stick  candy  and  pink  and  red 
peppermint  on  the  shelf  above  the  tea  chest. 
The  splint-work  photograph  frames,  made  by 
the  captain's  grandniece  three  years  before  to 
tempt  possible  buyers  of  Christmas  gifts,  and 
never  sold,  were  displayed  artistically  by  the 
box  of  prunes.  In  winter  a  big  stove  was 
planted  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  when 
you  entered,  mentally  running  over  the  items 
of  your  errand — "  Half  a  pound  of  tea,  a  yard 
of  black  tape,  a  quart  of  yellow-eyed  beans, 
and  fifty  cents'  worth  of  brown  sugar  " — you 
were  likely  to  find  that  stove  surrounded  by 
a  circle  of  ancient  mariners  who  had  known 
Cap'n  Eben  in  his  prime  and  had  not  forgot- 
ten him  in  his  age. 

130 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitant 

O  for  an  all-embracing  memory  which  could 
have  held  and  retained  the  yarns  told  about 
that  stove,  yarns  of  adventure  afloat  and 
ashore  in  places  that  are  merely  dots  and 
names  upon  the  map  of  the  world !  Here  was 
"  material  "  for  you,  at  first  hand,  and  told 
with  a  nautical  twist  which  brings  the  salt 
taste  to  your  mouth  even  now.  But  the  yarns 
are  gone  and  the  old  skippers  who  spun  them 
have  gone,  too,  on  the  longest  voyage  of  all — 
the  voyage  we  shall  all  take,  and  for  which 
our  passages  were  booked  the  day  we  were 
born. 

And  Cap'n  Eben,  despite  his  firm  belief  and 
the  plain  statement  of  the  Good  Book,  set  sail 
upon  that  voyage  twenty  years  ago.  There 
must  have  been  an  error  in  his  logic  some- 
where, but  at  least  he  never  knew  it.  "  I  feel  • 
sort  of  tired,  Huldy,"  he  said  to  his  grand- 
niece  one  evening.  "  I  guess  I'll  go  aloft  and 
turn  in."  And  when,  at  breakfast  time  next 
morning,  the  girl  went  up  to  call  him,  she 
found  that  she  was  too  late  —  the  call  had 
come  during  the  night,  and  he  had  answered 
"Aye,  aye !  "  as  a  seaman  should. 


Our  Village 

Last  summer,  when  you  were  talking  with 
the  portly  person  who  so  brazenly  claimed  to 
be  the  Snuppy  Rogers  you  used  to  chum 
with,  the  subject  of  "  our  oldest  inhabitant " 
drifted  into  the  conversation. 

"  Hum !  "  you  said  reflectively.  "  I  wonder 
who  is  oldest  inhabitant  now  ?  " 

"  Why,"  replied  Snuppy,  "  I  don't  know. 
Let  me  see.  I  guess — I  guess  it's  Mr.  Seth 
Crosby.  Yes,  I  remember  that  they  do  call 
him  oldest  inhabitant  now." 

Mr.  Seth  Crosby!  Uncle  Seth!  The  old- 
est inhabitant!  Nonsense!  And  yet  as  you 
hurriedly  do  a  sum  in  mental  arithmetic,  the 
answer  is  uncontrovertible.  Uncle  Seth  is 
eighty-eight. 

But  Uncle  Seth  the  oldest  inhabitant? 
Why,  it  doesn't  seem  possible.  Then  you 
remember  that  you  yourself  are  nearly  f — 
Ss — sh!  Let's  talk  about  something  else. 


TEACHER 


10 


ar> 


TEACHER 

THE  schoolhouse  in  our  village  was  on  the 
main  road,  directly  opposite  Cap'n  Daniels's 
store.  In  your  younger  days  you  accepted  its 
location  as  a  proof  of  wisdom  on  the  part  of 
the  selectmen  or  the  school  committee,  or  who- 
ever was  responsible  for  placing  it  there.  In 
Cap'n  Daniels's  store,  and  nowhere  else  in 
town,  could  be  bought  two  "  jaw  breakers  " 
for  a  penny,  big  "  jaw  breakers "  at  that, 
round,  flavored  with  peppermint,  and  harder 
than  the  rock  of  Gibraltar.  One  of  these 
grapeshot,  scientifically  inserted  in  the  left 
cheek,  gave  to  a  youngster  the  appearance  of 
a  severe  case  of  one-sided  mumps  and  the  joy 

135 


Our  Village 

of  two  hours'  slowly  dissolving  sweetness. 
These  were  the  chief  charms  of  "  jaw  break- 
ers," they  were  cheap  and  they  "  lasted  long." 
In  that  store,  also,  one  might  purchase — al- 
ways provided  that  the  financial  consideration 
was  forthcoming — a  peculiar  kind  of  molasses 
stick  candy,  thickly  coated  with  chocolate. 
When  one  of  the  "  gang  "  happened  to  be  in 
funds  to  the  extent  of,  perhaps,  two  cents — 
earned  by  the  going  of  errands,  by  the  selling 
of  bones  and  old  iron  to  the  junk  man,  or  ob- 
tained by  diplomatic  appeal  to  the  generosity 
of  a  relative  —  the  procession  of  the  elect 
formed  in  the  school  yard  and  marched  ma- 
jestically across  the  road,  through  the  bat- 
tered doorway  and  up  to  the  cap'n's  little 
show  case,  where,  beneath  the  cracked  panes 
mended  with  strips  of  brown  paper  and  mu- 
cilage, were  displayed  delectable  dainties  in 
various  stages  of  age  and  gumminess.  The 
moneyed  individual  of  the  party  produced  his 
two-cent  piece ;  rapped  peremptorily  on  a  par- 
ticular pane  and  shrieked — for  Cap'n  Daniels 
was  extremely  "  deef  "  —  "  Gimme  two  o' 
them,  please ;  them  there."  Then,  having  pro- 
136 


cured  the  chocolate-covered  chunks,  it  re- 
mained only  to  distribute  them  in  "  bites,"  the 
size  of  each  bite  being  limited  by  the  pressure 
of  the  owner's  thumb  nail  on  the  stick.  To 
bite  close  up  to  the  thumb  nail  was  fair  and 
aboveboard ;  to  attempt  a  "  hog  bite "  was 
considered  ill  mannered. 

Besides  candy,  Cap'n  Daniels  sold  slates 
and  pencils  and  penholders  and  sponges  and 
"  T.  D."  pipes — fine  for  hayseed  and  sweet 
fern — and  elastic  for  slingshots  and  marbles, 
and  goodness  knows  how  many  other  necessi- 
ties of  boy  life.  Therefore  it  was  a  graceful 
though  rather  obvious  act  of  kindness  to  build 
the  schoolhouse  directly  opposite  such  a  depot 
of  supplies.  Then,  too,  wasn't  the  School- 
house  Pond  only  a  hundred  yards  away? 
Where  could  you  have  skated  during  recess 
and  noon  hour  if  they  hadn't  put  the  school- 
house  where  it  was? 

That  pond  was  a  luxury.  A  few  months 
ago  a  friend  of  yours,  who  is  principal  of  a 
big  city  school  (another  evidence  of  the  de- 
pravity in  taste  brought  about  by  the  years ; 
there  was  a  time  when  you  would  have 
137 


Our  Village 

scorned  to  own  a  teacher  as  your  friend), 
showed  you  through  the  mammoth  new  build- 
ing over  which  he  presided.  He  was  proud 
of  that  building.  It  had  forty  rooms  or 
so,  each  bigger  than  either  "  upstairs "  or 
"  downstairs "  in  the  school  at  our  village, 
and  there  was  an  assembly  room,  and  a  big 
gymnasium,  and  a  room  in  which  the  scholars 
who  lived  some  distance  off,  and  in  stormy 
weather  brought  their  lunches,  might  eat  them. 
Then  they  could  play  in  the  gymnasium  if 
they  wanted  to. 

The  principal  boasted  loudly  of  the  gymna- 
sium and  the  lunch  room,  but  you  didn't  think 
much  of  them.  You  used  to  carry  your  lunch 
— or  your  dinner ;  nobody  in  our  village  called 
the  noon  meal  "  lunch  " — but  you  didn't  need 
any  particular  room  to  eat  it  in.  No,  sir !  you 
ate  your  boiled  eggs  and  pie  and  doughnuts 
and  cookies  at  the  edge  of  the  Schoolhouse 
Pond,  if  it  happened  to  be  winter  and  no  snow 
on  the  ground,  and  it  took 
you  maybe  ten  minutes  to 
cram  the  whole  meal  into 
your  system.  Then,  as  your 
138 


Teacher 

skates  were  already  on,  you  tossed  the  tin  pail 
up  on  the  bank  and  shot  out  upon  the  ice, 
to  glide  and  "  scull  "  and  do  the  "  outer  edge  " 
and  the  "  roll,"  until  the  bell  warned  you  that 
the  time  had  come  to  return  to  common  frac- 
tions and  the  boundaries  of  the  Territory  of 
New  Mexico. 

So  when  your  friend  boasted  of  his  mam- 
moth building  and  its  gymnasium,  you  smiled 
in  a  superior  fashion  and  thought :  "  This  is 
all  right,  so  far  as  it  goes,  perhaps,  but  where 
is  your  Schoolhouse  Pond  ?  " 

There  were  "  grades  "  innumerable  at  this 
city  school.  In  our  village  the  school  was  not 
divided  into  grades,  but  into  halves.  The 
lower  half — that  where  the  little  chaps  learned 
their  little  "  C-A-T — Cat,"  and  so  on  up  to 
"  Meg's  Race  for  Life,"  in  the  Fourth  Reader 
— was  called,  by  reason  of  its  location, 
"  downstairs."  The  upper  half — where  your 
education  progressed  until  you  were  able  to 
declare  with  certainty  that  "  All  Gaul  is  di- 
vided into  three  parts,"  and  recite  without 
looking  at  the  book,  "  It  had  been  a  day  of 
triumph  at  the  capital.  Somebody  or  other, 

139 


Our  Village 

returning  with  victorious  eagles,  had  amused 
the  populace,"  etc. — that  half  was,  of  course, 
"  upstairs."  High  school  there  was  none. 
Students  completing  the  upstairs  courses  and 
graduating  on  "  last  day "  usually  went  to 
work.  Those  who  yearned — or  whose  parents 
yearned — for  higher  education  might  attend 
the  "  academy  "  at  Edgewater. 

Teachers  at  our  school  were,  like  the  divi- 
sions, two  in  number.  A  female  taught 
downstairs;  a  male  upstairs.  The  downstairs 
teacher  was,  generally  speaking,  a  native  of 
our  village;  the  upstairs  candidates  came 
usually  from  beyond  township  limits.  They, 
the  upstairs  teachers,  were  pretty  likely  to  be 
young  fellows  just  out  of  college,  who  in- 
tended practicing  law  or  medicine  some  day, 
and,  by  teaching,  were  trying  to  earn  and 
save  money  enough  to  begin  their  professional 
studies.  When  one  had  accomplished  this  feat 
— or  thought  he  had — he  departed  and  a  new 
one  took  his  place. 

One  reason  why  the  position  of  teacher  up- 
stairs was  so  seldom  accepted  as  permanent 
by  the  men  who  filled  it  was  the  salary.  And 
140 


Teacher 

yet  this  salary  was  considered  princely  by 
many  of  the  voters  in  our  village.  It  was 
more  than  the  majority  of  the  stay-at-homes 
were  able  to  make,  and  it  was  paid  each  month 
in  good  hard  cash.  As  for  you  and  the  rest 
of  the  scholars,  you  regarded  it  with  awe  and 
envy.  In  fact,  the  salary  was  rated  much 
higher  than  the  pedagogue's  intellectual  quali- 
ties; witness  the  quatrain  enthusiastically 
chanted  by  boys  well  out  of  hearing  of  the 
schoolhouse : 

"  Oh,  Power  above,  send  down  your  love 

Upon  us  all,  poor  scholars, 
With  a  great  big  fool  to  teach  our  school, 
And  they  pay  him  sixty  dollars." 

That  is,  sixty  dollars  a  month  during  the 
teaching  season.  And,  after  all,  when  you 
consider  that  "  teacher "  might  lodge  at  the 
Widow  Cummings's,  in  a  room  overlooking 
the  bay,  said  room  being  furnished  with  a 
corded  bedstead  and  a  feather  bed  smothered 
under  a  "  log-cabin "  quilt,  a  "  diamond " 
quilt,  a  "  rising-sun "  quilt,  and  other  quilts 
and  comforters ;  with  a  crayon  enlargement  of 
141 


Our  Village 

Grandpa  Cummings  and  a  spatter-work  motto 
on  the  wall ;  with  a  blue-flowered  wash  bowl 
and  pitcher  on  a  pink-flowered  "  commode  " ; 
when  you  consider  that  he  was  privileged 
to  enjoy  the  cultured  conversation  of  Miss 
Beasley  and  the  rest  at  the  table,  and  that 
all  these  luxuries  were  his  for  three  dollars 
paid  the  widow  each  Saturday  night — then 
a  wage  of  fifteen  dollars  weekly  doesn't  seem 
so  bad.  No  wonder  he  could  save  money ; 
particularly  as  "  jaw  breakers "  and  Cap'n 
Daniels's  store  seemed  to  tempt  him  not  in 
the  least. 

When  grandma  went  to  school — an  experi- 
ence to  which  the  old  lady  never  failed  in  ref- 
erence whenever  you  chanced  to  complain  of 
your  own  educational  trials — she  didn't  have 
"  no  fine  place,  all  fixed  up  pretty  so's  it  ought 
to  be  a  delight  to  study  your  lesson  book  in 
it."  No,  indeed !  She  attended  the  old  "  dees- 
trict  school,"  and  the  old  "  deestrict-school  " 
building,  a  tumble-down  ruin  in  your  day,  still 
stood  on  the  lane  leading  to  the  railroad  sta- 
tion. Having  climbed  in  at  the  sashless,  pane- 
less  windows  several  times,  you  have  a  fair 
142 


Teacher 

idea  of  what  the  district  school 
of  grandma's  youth  must  have 
looked  like. 

It  was  small,  very  small, 
and  perfectly  square.  The 
floor  sloped  on  three  sides 
down  to  the  platform  where 
the  teacher's  desk  used  to  be. 
The  big  boys  and  girls  sat  in  the  back  seats — 
just  as  they  did  in  your  school,  for  that  matter 
— and  the  little  ones  in  front.  There  were  long 
benches  instead  of  individual  chairs.  And,  by 
the  way,  the  exterior  of  the  building  was  a 
dingy  brown.  The  "  little  red  schoolhouse  " 
we  hear  so  much  about  may  have  existed 
somewhere,  but  apparently  not  in  our  village. 

"  Perfessor  "  Dingley  taught  the  deestrict 
school  when  grandma  was  a  girl.  No  med- 
ical student  was  the  "  professor."  School- 
teaching  was  his  trade,  and  its  practice  in- 
cluded much  physical  as  well  as  mental  labor. 
To  undertake  the  guidance  of  a  youth  old 
enough  and  big  enough  to  "  go  a-fishin'  "  on 
Banks  voyages  during  the  summer  months 
and  attain  an  education  in  the  winter  time 

143 


Our  Village 

must    have    required    a   good    deal   of   main 
strength  along  with  the  will  power. 

Professor  Dingley's  hobby  was  mathemat- 
ics. He  loved  to  wrestle  with  abstruse  prob- 
lems, and  figures  were  his  playthings.  Often 
and  often,  according  to  grandma,  he  would 
become  so  wrapped  in  an  arithmetical  puzzle 
as  to  forget  the  school  entirely.  While  he  sat 
at  his  desk,  his  head  on  his  hands,  the  scholars 
would  raise  Cain,  whispering,  throwing  spit- 
balls,  and  "  carrying  on  "  generally.  In  the 
midst  of  the  chaos  old  Dingley  would  come 
out  of  his  trance.  His  eye  would  light  upon 
some  one  of  the  most  energetic  performets. 
Then,  without  warning  and  directly  at  the  of- 
fender's head,  would  be  hurled  the  arithmetic 
book,  the  heavy  ebony  ferule,  or  whatever 
happened  to  be  nearest  the  irate  teacher's  arm. 
And  for  the  next  five  minutes  the  professor 
would  rage  up  and  down  the  aisles,  smiting 
right  and  left,  and  leaving  bumps,  tears,  and 
studious  attention  in  his  wake.  The  attain- 
ment of  knowledge  at  the  deestrict  school 
must  have  been  a  splendid  preparation  for  the 
stern  battles  of  life. 

144 


Teacher 

It  was  at  the  old  school,  while  grandma  was 
in  the  lower  classes,  that  Laban  Gore  made 
his  undying  reputation  as  a  public  speaker. 
Friday,  of  course,  was  "  speakin'  pieces  day," 
and  Laban  had  struggled  to  commit  to  mem- 
ory a  flowery  oration  delivered  by  some  great 
man  upon  the  occasion  of  the  presentation  of 
a  flag  to  a  company  enlisted  for  the  War  of 
1812.  Master  Gore's  name  being  called,  he 
arose  and  shuffled  to  the  platform.  Bowing, 
he  turned  a  blanched  but  freckled  face  to  the 
expectant  audience. 

"  '  Take  the  banner — '  "  began  Laban ; 
"  barner "  was  the-  way  he  pronounced  the 
word,  and  it  was  accompanied  by  a  rigid, 
right-angle  thrust  of  a  clenched  fist. 

"  '  Take  the  barner — '  "  repeated  Laban, 
shooting  out  the  fist  once  more.  "  Er — er — 
'  Take  the  barner—'  " 

He  paused  and  gulped  feverishly. 

"  Well,  sir  ?  "  observed  old  Dingley. 

"  Er— er—  '  Take  the  barner—'  Er— er— 
er —  *  Take  the  barner — '  "  Another  pause, 
more  gulps,  another  gesture,  and  "  Er — er — 

'  Take  the  barner ' " 

145 


Our  Village 

"  We-1-1  ?  "  drawled  the  professor,  his  voice 
rising. 

"  '  Take  the  barner — '  "  shrieked  poor  La- 
ban.  "'Take  the  barner—'  'Take  the— 
the — the  barner '  " 

"  Take  your  seat !  "  roared  Dingley.  "  Re- 
main after  school  and  I'll  try  and  find  some- 
thing else  for  you  to  '  take.'  " 

Laban's  declamation  was  probably  the  most 
successful  ever  delivered  in  our  village,  if  the 
enjoyment  of  his  hearers  and  the  unforgeta- 
bleness  of  his  remarks  are  taken  into  con- 
sideration. Everybody  called  him  "  Barner 
Gore  "  after  that. 

On  this  same  Friday  James  Collins — your 
great-uncle  Jim — recited  the  poem  beginning, 
"  Oh,  sailor  boy,  sailor  boy !  "  so  beautifully 
that  tears  came  to  the  stern  gray  eyes  of  old 
Dingley,  and  the  little  girls  down  in  front 
wept.  It  was  a  poem  of  shipwreck,  and  the 
poor  sailor  boy,  its  hero,  was  drowned. 

Afterwards,  when  Uncle  Jim,  only  twenty 

years  of  age,  and  first  mate  at  that,  went  down 

with  his  ship  off  Cape  Hatteras,  people  said 

the  poem  was  a  prophecy.     But  poor  Laban 

146 


Gore,  bos'n  on  that  same  ship,  was  drowned, 
too,  and  no  one  spoke  of  the  "  barner  "  ora- 
tion as  a  prophecy  or  implying  a  presenti- 
ment. 

During  your  three  years  of  scholastic  labor 
downstairs,  Miss  Serena  Fairtree  was  teacher 
of  that  division.  She  was  sweet  and  kind  and 
long-suffering,  and  her  most  severe  punish- 
ment was  to  shut  the  offender  up  in  the  dark 
closet  where  the  stove  wood  was  kept.  On 
that  very  "  last  day,"  when  you  said  farewell 
to  the  primary  books  and  other  infantile  puer- 
ilities, Miss  Serena  said  farewell  also.  She 
had  accepted  a  better  position  over  in  Ostable, 
where  she  taught  for  one  term  and  then  mar- 
ried the  chairman  of  the  Ostable  school  com- 
mittee. Miss  Olivia  Simpson  was  her  suc- 
cessor downstairs.  You,  as  a  full-fledged 
upstairs  freshman,  with  all 
the  privilege  of  that  ex- 
alted station  —  including  the 
right  to  leave  the  yard  at 
recess  without  asking  permis- 
sion and  to  go  all  around  the 
schoolhouse  instead  of  being  ~-* 
147 


Our  Village 

confined  to  the  "  boys'  side  " — you  grinned 
sarcastically  at  Miss  Olivia's  odd  garb  and 
stern  masculine  demeanor.  You  congratu- 
lated yourself  that  "  that  old  maid  "  wouldn't 
have  the  chance  to  boss  you.  This  premature 
crow  of  triumph  would  seem  to  prove  that 
Uncle  Jim's  gift  of  prophecy  was  not  hered- 
itary in  the  family. 

"  Specs  "  Bandmann  was  your  first  upstairs 
teacher.  "  Specs  "  wore  eyeglasses — hence  his 
name — and  was  so  dignified  and  pompous  that 
he  bent  backward  when  he  walked.  His  prin- 
cipal accomplishment  was  the  ease  with  which 
he  could  lift  a  boy  out  of  a  seat  over  a  desk 
and  into  the  aisle  with  one  "  yank "  of  his 
good  right  arm.  He  treated  big,  lubberly 
Obed  Ginn  —  whose  inexplicable  nickname 
was  "  Sumach  Bitters  " ;  "  Bitters,"  for  short 
— that  way  once,  and  "  Bitters  "  behaved  him- 
self thereafter  during  "  Specs'  "  term.  But 
"  Specs  "  resigned  in  the  spring  to  enter  the 
Harvard  Medical  College,  and,  when  school 
opened  in  the  fall,  Mr.  Lyon  was  the  new 
teacher. 

If  ever  a  man  belied  his  name — as  it  was 
148 


Teacher 

pronounced — Lyon  was  that  man.  There  was 
nothing  suggesting-  the  king  of  beasts  about 
him.  To  speak  of  him  as  lamblike  would  be 
doing  young  mutton  an  injustice,  for  lambs 
are  supposed  to  skip  and  gambol  occasionally, 
and  our  Lyon  lacked  the  spirit  to  do  anything 
so  energetic.  He  was  little  and  meek  and 
very,  very  well-meaning  and  well-behaved. 
The  committee  engaged  him  because  of  his 
learning.  His  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin 
so  dazzled  them  that  they  forgot  to  ask  con- 
cerning his  ability  as  a  disciplinarian. 

My,  but  you  and  the  shameless  crew  up- 
stairs made  poor  Lyon's  life  miserable!  It 
took  the  "  big  fellers  "  from  the  west  end  of 
the  village — the  fellows  who  only  attended 
school  in  the  winter  and  "  worked  out  "  sum- 
mers— just  two  days  to  discover  that  the  new 
teacher  was  an  easy  victim,  quite  incapable 
of  managing  even  a  modern  kindergarten. 
And,  after  the  big  fellows  made  this  discov- 
ery, the  little  ones  helped  to  profit  by  it. 
Caesar,  what  a  bedlam  that  schoolroom  be- 
came !  "  Spitballs  "  flew  in  showers,  whisper- 
ing was  done  openly,  feet  were  shuffled,  books 
11  149 


Our  Village 

were  dropped,  bent  pins  were  fired  from  elas- 
tic catapults.  Lyon,  nervous  little  creature, 
would  lose  control  of  his  temper  and  shriek 
and  threaten,  but,  as  his  threats  were  never 
carried  into  effect,  they  were  only  so  much 
more  amusement  for  the  committee  on  tor- 
ture, which  in  this  case  was  a  committee  of 
the  whole. 

"  Stop  that  noise !  "  the  poor  fellow  would 
shout,  alluding  to  a  low  humming,  like  that 
of  a  swarm  of  bees,  which  was  filling  the 
apartment. 

"Hum-m-m!" 

"Stop  it,  I  say!" 

"  Hum-m-m-m! " 

"  I  tell  you  STOP  !  I  know  the  guilty  par- 
ties. I  have  my  eye  on  them ! " 

"HUM-M-M-M!" 

To  hum  with  one's  mouth  closed,  and  with 
eyes  studiously  fixed  upon  a  book,  is  a  knack 
easily  acquired.  As  for  knowing  the  guilty 
parties — well,  everybody  was  a  guilty  party, 
and  when  Lyon  stamped  down  one  aisle  it  was 
as  silent  as  the  tomb.  He  rushed  away  to  lo- 
cate the  sound  in  another  aisle,  and,  behold, 


Teacher 

it  was  not ;  while  behind  him  it  began  again 
louder  than  ever. 

The  leaves  of  his  books  were  stuck  together 
with  chewing  gum  or  mucilage.  Some  one 
put  a  live  mouse  in  his  desk.  One  reprobate, 
who  is  ashamed  of  it  now,  filled  the  hollowed- 
out  wooden  seat  of  his  armchair  with  water./ 
Mr.  Lyon  happened  that  morning  to  be  wear- 
ing a  pair  of  very  thin  summer  trousers — his 
only  pair  of  winter  ones  being  mended  by 
kind-hearted  Widow  Cummings — and  after  he 
sat  down  in  that  icy  water,  to  rise  with  en- 
thusiastic promptness  and  energy,  he  shivered 
through  the  forenoon  session.  In  the  after- 
noon he  attempted  to  chastise  "  Bitters  "  Ginn, 
and  not  only  did  not  succeed  in  accomplish- 
ing the  feat,  but  suffered  the  humiliation  of 
having  his  ferule  taken  away  from  him  and 
of  being  told  by  "  Bitters  "  himself  to  "  run 
along  and  set  down,  like  a  nice  little  boy." 

That  evening  he  was  heard  weeping  in  his 
room  by  Mrs.  Cummings's  servant  girl.  Next 
morning  he  came  to  the  school  accompanied 
by  Squire  Benijah  Penniman,  chairman  of  the 
school  committee.  Squire  Penniman  made  us  a 


Our  Village 

,.  s.[  -\_  little  speech.  Unlike 
his  usual  speeches,  it 
was  brief  and  very 
much  to  the  point. 

"  We  gen'rally  fig- 
ger,  the  committee 
does,"  concluded  the  squire,  "  to 
have  proper  order  and  obedjunce 
to  discipline  in  the  schoolrooms  of  this  town. 
And  by  mighty,  we  caVlate  to  have  'em  fare! 
Next  week  the  reg'lar  April  vacation  ought 
to  begin.  Downstairs'll  ha\e  that  vacation. 
Upstairs  won't.  You'll  stay  here  and  study 
your  lesson  books,  and  them  that  don't  study 
'em  '11  hear  from  me — from  me.  D'you  un- 
derstand ?  " 

We  understood.     Cap'n  Benijah  had  been 
skipper  of  an  Australian  clipper  in  his  day 
and    had    handled    mutinous    crews    before. 
There  was  sullen  silence  until  he  departed ; 
then  the  turmoil  broke  loose  worse  than  ever. 
Cheat  us  out  of  our  vacation,  hey?    Maybe 
we  might  have  to  come  to  school,  but  study 
and  "obedjunce  to  dis«/>line" — these  were  dif- 
ferent.    Various  plots  were  laid  and  schemes 
152 


Teacher 

hatched.  "  Bitters  "  and  his  friends  were  the 
ringleaders  in  all  these.  Mr.  Lyon's  life  dur- 
ing the  coming  fortnight  bade  fair  to  be  more 
strenuous  than  ever.  He  would  not  lack  en- 
tertainment, at  any  rate. 

But  on  Sunday  morning  he  was  not  at 
church.  The  corner  pew  with  the  pillar  in  it, 
which  he  had  taken  because  it  was  cheap  and 
no  one  else  liked  it,  was  empty.  You  heard 
Mrs.  Cummings  tell  Abitha  Doane,  after 
meeting,  that  "  Teacher  ain't  feelin'  a  mite 
well,  poor  little  man.  He's  in  bed  now,  all  het 
up  and  feverish,  and  if  he  ain't  better  when  I 
get  back  home  I'm  goin'  to  have  Dr.  Pen- 
rose  in.  Them  dreadful  young  ones  at  school 
have  worried  him  sick,  that's  what's  the  trou- 
ble. It's  a  shame!  good  and  well-meanin'  as 
he  is." 

You  should  have  been  repentant  and  con- 
science-stricken on  hearing  this  piece  of  news. 
You  are  now,  as  you  think  of  it.  But  then, 
shameful  to  relate,  your  most  dominant  senti- 
ment was  hope.  If  teacher  was  sick,  why — 
why,  then  there  couldn't  be  any  school  on 
Monday.  You  might  get  the  vacation  after 
153 


Our  Village 

all.  Hooray!  You  hastened  to  spread  the 
tidings. 

Sure  enough,  on  Monday  morning  Mr. 
Lyon  was  not  at  his  desk  upstairs.  Being  as 
methodical  in  some  things  as  he  was  unprac- 
tical in  most  others,  it  had  been  his  custom  to 
enter  the  school  yard  precisely  at  quarter  to 
nine,  as  the  janitor  was  ringing  the  "  first 
bell."  But  now  he  came  not.  There  were  all 
sorts  of  rumors  afloat — he  was  very  sick,  he 
was  threatened  with  typhoid,  he  might  die — 
"  Bitters  "  Ginn  said  he  hoped  he  would. 

Five  minutes  to  nine.  The  "  last  bell  "  was 
ringing.  Some  of  the  weaklings,  actuated  by 
force  of  habit  and  vague  fears,  went  up  to  the 
schoolroom  and  took  their  seats ;  but  the  ma- 
jority remained  in  the  yard  and  joined  in  the 
song  which  "  Bitters  "  was  leading : 

"An  eagle  flew  from  north  to  south 
With  Solomon  Lyon  in  his  mouth, 
And  when  he  found  he  had  a  fool 
He  dropped  him  at  the  upstairs  school." 

"  Once  more,"  yelled  the  choirmaster ;  "  and 
holler  it  good  and  loud !  " 
154 


But  we  did  not  "  holler."  A  buggy  drove 
up  to  the  hitching  post  and  two  people  got 
out.  One  of  these  people  was  Squire  Penni- 
man  and  the  other  was  Miss  Olivia  Simpson, 
the  downstairs  teacher. 

"  Go  into  that  schoolhouse,  the  whole  crew 
of  you.  Lively  now !  "  roared  the  squire,  in 
his  quarter-deck  voice.  We  obeyed  orders 
and  were  lively. 

"  Now  then,"  growled  the  committeeman, 
standing  by  the  teacher's  desk  and  glaring  at 
the  pupils,  "  this  school'll  come  to  order.  Si- 
lence, aft  there!  D'you  want  me  to  come 
down  to  you  ?  " 

The  question  was  addressed  to  the  rebel- 
lious "  Bitters,"  who  had  shuffled  his  feet. 
The  shuffling  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a 
scrape. 

"  I  s'pose,"  continued  Cap'n  Benijah,  "  that 
you  thought  because  your  outrageous  actions 
had  made  your  teacher  sick — yes,  he's  sick, 
poor  fellow,  and  likely  to  be  wuss — I  s'pose 
you  thought  they'd  be  no  school  for  this  com- 
ing fortni't,  after  all.  There  will  be.  Miss 
Simpson  is  going  to  take  Mr.  Lyon's  place. 
155 


Our  Village 

She'll  teach  you  and  you're  to  mind  her.  And 
just  remember  this,"  he  added,  in  an  ominous 
growl ;  "  me  and  the  committee  are  backing 
her  up.  Miss  Olivia,  you  can  take  the  ship — 
the  school,  I  should  say." 

To  be  handed  over  to  a  woman !  To  be  put 
in  charge  of  a  downstairs  teacher!  The  in- 
dignity of  it!  The  school  set  its  teeth  and 
glared  at  the  big,  raw-boned  female  who 
stepped  to  the  front  of  the  platform.  Let  her 
wait — only  just  wait!  What  had  been  done  to 
Lyon  wouldn't  be  a  circumstance  to  what  was 
coming  to  her. 

Ah,  well,  as  grandma  used  to  say,  "  you 
can't  most  always  sometimes  tell."  What  we 
did  to  Miss  Olivia  Simpson  isn't  worth  men- 
tioning. What  she  did  to  us  is  well  worth 
the  mention,  but  would  fill  a  book.  You  may 
condense  it  by  saying  that,  before  the  first 
week  was  over,  that  schoolroom  was  as  calm 
and  peaceful  as  the  Schoolhouse  Pond  on  a 
June  morning. 

And  she  had  her  own  ways  of  achieving  re- 
sults. The  manner  in  which  she  squelched  the 
mighty  "  Sumach  Bitters "  Ginn  was  a  tri- 
156 


Teacher 

umph.  "  Bitters  "  came  to  school  on  the  sec- 
ond morning  armed  with  a  perfect  battery  of 
mammoth  spitballs,  prepared  the  night  before ; 
he  had  both  pockets  of  his  jacket  full  of  them. 

The  first  of  these  projectiles  whizzed  across 
the  room  and  spread-eagled  on  the  blackboard 
over  the  "  girls'  side  "  with  a  sticky  "  spat." 
Everybody  laughed;  that  is,  everybody  but 
"  teacher." 

"  Obed  Ginn,"  observed  Miss  Olivia,  "  you 
may  go  to  the  board  and  clean  that  off." 

"  Bitters's  "  reply  to  this  command  was  the 
declaration  that  he  "  wan't  cleanin'  up  spit- 
balls  much  these  days."  He  had  done  some 
preparatory  boasting  to  the  effect  that  he'd 
make  the  "  old  gal  set  up  and  take  notice." 
He  didn't  give  a  durn  about  losing  a  few  re- 
cesses. 

But  Miss  Olivia  made  no  mention  of  for- 
feited recesses.  She  did  not  even  answer  her 
rebellious  pupil.  She  sat  down  at  her  desk, 
wrote  a  few  lines,  inclosed  them  in  an  envel- 
ope, and  handed  the  envelope  to  one  of  the 
smaller  boys  in  a  front  seat.  The  boy  de- 
parted with  the  note.  Miss  Simpson  called 

157 


Our  Village 


for  the  recitation  by  the  first  class 
in  arithmetic.  "  Bitters  "  grinned 
triumphantly. 

Perhaps    to    grin    then    was 
good  judgment  on  his  part.   At 
any  rate,  he  grinned  no  more 
/   that  day.    The  messenger  hav- 
ing returned,  a  knock  sounded 
on  the  door  leading  from  the  coat 
room,  and   Miss  Olivia  announced 
that   some  one   without  desired  to 
speak  to  him,  Obed.    "  Bitters  "  ad- 
journed to  the  coat  room  and  the 
door  closed  after  him. 

Then  from  behind  that  closed  door 
came  sounds,  various  and  animate,  sounds  sug- 
gestive of  a  thrashing  machine  in  full  opera- 
tion, accompanied  by  yells  and  protests  in  the 
well-known  voice  of  "  Sumach  Bitters."  The 
school  was  intensely  agitated,  but  teacher 
didn't  seem  even  interested.  She  continued  to 
question  the  first  class  in  arithmetic. 

After  a  time  the  sounds  ceased.  Then  the 
door  opened  and  Obed  Ginn  appeared.  He 
was  disheveled,  his  fat  face  was  red  and  tear- 

158 


Teacher 

stained,  and  the  torn  collar  of  his  shirt  was 
gripped  by  the  sinewy  fingers  of  Mr.  Felix 
Ginn,  his  father.  Felix  was  six  feet  four 
inches  in  height,  and  his  shoulders  brushed 
either  side  of  the  doorway.  In  his  free  hand 
was  the  frazzled  remnant  of  an  apple-wood 
switch — or  rather  of  what  had  been  the  small 
limb  of  an  apple-tree. 

"  Here  he  is,  marm,"  observed  Ginn,  senior. 
"  I  cal'late  he'll  mind  yer  for  a  spell,  anyway. 
If  he  don't,  you  send  for  me  again.  I'm 
workin'  right  over  here  on  Cap'n  Bangs's 
cranberry  swamp,  and  that's  handy  by." 

From  that  time  on  "  Bitters  "  was  an  ex- 
tremely mild  dose. 

At  the  end  of  the  two  weeks,  during  which 
the  downstairs  scholars  played  and  the  up- 
stairs studied,  it  was  generally  supposed  that 
Mr.  Lyon,  having  recovered  from  his  illness, 
would  return  to  his  teaching.  He  did,  but  it 
was  to  the  teaching  of  the  primary,  the  down- 
stairs room.  Miss  Olivia  Simpson  continued 
to  preside  upstairs. 

"  Humph !  "  grunted  Squire  Penniman,  as 
he  made  the  announcement.  "  I  told  you  the 

159 


Our  Village 

committee  cal'lated  to  have  order  and  obed- 
junce  to  proper  discipline  up  here,  didn't  1  ? 
Well,  we've  got  just  them  things,  thanks  to 
this  lady.  The  downstairs  scholars  'pear  to 
have  sense  enough  not  to  act  like  babies — 
that's  why  we  give  'em  the  teacher  that's  usu- 
ally given  to  young  men  and  women.  And 
you,  acting  like  babies,  and  spiled  babies  at 
that,  you  get  the  baby  teacher.  And  when 
you  need  spanking,  I  rather  guess  she  can 
give  it  to  you." 

For  two  years  after  that  Miss  Olivia  con- 
tinued to  teach  upstairs  and  Mr.  Lyon  down- 
stairs. And  during  these  two  years  the  Sew- 
ing Circle  and  the  Good  Templars'  Society 
and  the  Ladies'  Shakespeare  Reading  Club 
whispered  and  surmised  and  guessed  and 
wondered.  Then  the  mine  was  sprung.  Both 
teachers  resigned  simultaneously.  They  had 
been  engaged  for  months  and  were  to  be  mar- 
ried immediately. 

Squire  Benijah  Penniman,  when  he  heard 
the  astounding  news,  voiced  the  prevailing 
sentiment. 

"  Well,  by  mighty !  "  exclaimed  the  squire. 
160 


"That  beats  all,  don't  it?  And  yet  I  don't 
know.  Olivia's  one  of  them  women  that's 
made  so  by  mistake.  She's  too  much  of  a  man 
herself  to  want  to  tie  up  with  a  real  male  crit- 
ter, and  that's  why  she  took  a  notion  to  Lyon. 
She  can  boss  him  and  earn  money  for  him, 
and  he  can  take  care  of  the  plants  and  do  the 
mending.  Humph !  Well,  I'll  bet  she  did  the 
proposing." 

Mr.  Lyon  is  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  now. 
And  a  successful  one,  too,  so  they  say.  There 
is  a  shrewd  suspicion  that,  although  he  may 
write  his  own  sermons,  his  wife  edits  them. 
And  she  is  president  of  the  Church  Ladies' 
Aid,  and  a  member  of  the  parish  committee. 
Likewise  she  usually  leads  the  prayer  meet- 
ing and  acts  as  assistant  superintendent  of  the 
Sunday-school.  And  that  Sunday-school  is 
the  best  behaved  one  in  the  State  where  it  is 
located. 

You  have  lost  track  of  many  of  the  old 
teachers.  But  "  Specs "  Bandmann's  name 
appears  in  the  papers  occasionally.  He  is 
ably  filling  an  appropriate  position — superin- 
tendent of  a  large  insane  asylum.  You  are 
161 


Our  Village 

willing  to  bet  that  his  preliminary  training 
with  "  Bitters  "  and  the  other  "  big  fellers  "  in 
our  upstairs  school  has  been  of  service  to  him 
in  dealing  with  the  violent  patients. 


A  CHRISTMAS   MEMORY 


A   CHRISTMAS    MEMORY 

IT  was  coming.  Already  the  breath  of  it  was 
in  the  air.  When  you  went  down  to  Dan- 
iels's  after  a  pound  of  currants  and  a  quarter 
pound  of  citron — you  and  Gyp — you  could 
feel  it  in  the  wind,  blowing  across  the  snow- 
covered  fields  and  over  the  frozen  salt  mead- 
ows. The  breakers,  'way  off  yonder  along 
the  outer  bar,  where  the  white  ice  cakes  ended 
and  the  deep-blue  water  began,  sang  it  to  you. 
The  rows  of  little  icicles  strung  along  the 
apple-tree  limbs  like  the  fringe  on  grandma's 
cashmere  shawl — the  one  pa  brought  home 
from  sea  and  which  she  kept  in  the  spare 
room  bureau  drawer,  packed  in  camphor,  be- 
cause it  was  too  nice  to  wear — clicked  against 
12  165 


Our  Village 

each  other  as  the  boughs  swung  back  and 
forth,  and  sounded  like  the  sleigh  bells  you 
used  to  dream  about  before  you  grew  up  and 
knew  what  was  what  concerning  Santa  Claus. 
It  was  coming !  You  had  to  stop  in  the  snow 
and  grin  for  sheer  joy. 

Down  at  Daniels's  it  was  very  much  in  evi- 
dence. The  real  store  was  over  at  Orham, 
five  miles  off,  but  Cap'n  Daniels  wasn't  so  old 
or  nearsighted  as  not  to  see  his  duty  and  do 
it,  after  a  fashion.  The  candy  jars  on  the 
counter  were  filled  with  brand-new  striped 
sticks.  The  cover  was  off  the  big  box  of 
prunes  just  in  from  Boston.  Where  the  case 
of  O.  N.  T.  cotton  used  to  stand,  by  the  end 
of  the  pipe  and  tobacco  show  case,  a  space 
had  been  cleared,  and  there  was  a  collection 
of  jackknives  and  thimbles  and  "  housewife's 
companions,"  and  monkeys  on  sticks  that 
jumped  up  and  down  when  you  worked  them, 
and  tin  horses  and  carts,  and  some  baby  dolls 
for  ten  cents,  and — and — lots  more. 

And  farther  on  there  were  some  tidies  that 
Aunt  Tryphosa  Daniels  had  knit,  and  some 
splint-work  photograph  frames  that  Susan  T. 
166 


A  Christmas  Memory 

had  made — splint  work  was  so  pretty  and  so 
easy  to  do — and  more  really  expensive  things, 
including  two  plush  books  with  "  Album  "  in 
tin  letters  on  the  covers.  The  albums  weren't 
new,  however ;  Cap'n  Daniels  had  bought  them 
three  years  before  and  hadn't  yet  been  able  to 
sell  them.  No  wonder !  they  cost  a  dollar  and 
a  quarter  a  piece.  Who  wanted  to  spend  that 
much  money  here  at  home,  when  you  could  go 
to  Orham  and  have  such  a  big  assortment  to 
choose  from? 

"  You  tell  your  folks,"  says  Cap'n  Daniels, 
adjusting  a  pair  of  specs — he  used  two  pairs, 
one  "  nigh-to  "  and  the  other  "  fur-off  "— 
"  you  tell  your  folks  to  home  that  when  they 
want  to  buy  their  Christmas  presents  this  year 
they  ain't  got  to  hitch  up  no  team.  Tell  'em 
to  come  and  see  me.  You  tell  'em  that,  now, 
will  you?  Keep  your  hands  out  of  them 
prunes." 

Grandma  was  in  the  kitchen  when  you  got 
back.  The  breath  of  the  coming  was  there, 
too,  and  its  odor  was  spicy  and  warm  and 
sweet.  The  cook  stove  was  red  hot,  pretty 
near.  When  you  wanted  a  quick,  hot  fire  you 
167 


Our  Village 

put  in  pine.  When  you  wanted  a  fire  to  keep, 
and  to  bake  with,  you  started  with  the  pine 
and  then  loaded  in  the  heavy  oak  chunks. 
You  knew  all  about  it.  Why  shouldn't  you? 
Didn't  you  have  to  fill  the  oilcloth-covered 
wood  box  every  morning?  And  who,  if  not 
you,  piled  the  double  rows  on  each  side  of  the 
potato  cellar? — pitchy  stick  pine  on  one  side, 
and  oak,  with  the  moss  on  the  bark,  on  the 
other. 

Grandma  was  making  fruit  cake.  When  it 
was  done,  she  would  frost  it  with  some  stuff 
like  sugared  cement  or  wall  plaster,  and  put 
the  loaves  in  the  tin  box  in  the  parlor  closet. 

"  Gramma." 

"Well,  Jimmie,  what  is  it?  Don't  bother 
me  more'n  you  have  to.  I'm  awful  busy." 

"Can  I  have  just  one  currant?" 

"  No,  you  can't.  Well,  just  one  then.  Land 
sakes !  Is  that  what  you  call  one  ?  Clear  out 
of  this  kitchen,  quick." 

"  Aw,  there  ain't  nowheres  to  go."  It  was 
Saturday,  and  therefore  "  no  school." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  skating?     I  saw  the 
other  boys  going;  Eddie  Rogers  and  all." 
168 


A  Christmas  Memory 

"  Aw,  my  skates  ain't  any  good." 

"  No  good?  Why,  Jimmie  Snow,  how  you 
talk!  You  ain't  had  those  skates  but  two 
year,  and " 

"  Yes,  but  they  don't  wear  that  kind  of 
skates  any  more.  Old  heel  plates !  Always 
have  to  be  digging  'em  out.  Oak-legs  —  I 
mean  Sammie  Foster — has  got  a  pair  of  Ice 
Royals.  Ain't  they  bully,  though !  Just  have 
to  put  'em  against  your  shoe  and  push  a  thing 
in — a  little  mite  of  an  iron  thing — and  they're 
on.  No  heel  plates,  nor  screws,  nor  straps, 
nor  nothing.  Say,  gramma !  " 

"  Urn-hum." 

"Say,  gramma!    Gramma!" 

"Well,  well!    What  is  it?" 

"  Won't  you  and  grandpa  get  me  a  pair  of 
Ice  Royals  for  Christmas?  Aw,  please." 

"  No,  no.  'Course  not.  How  many  times 
are  you  going  to  ask  that  ?  " 

"  Aw,  say,  gramma !  Sammie  Foster's  got 
'em,  and  Snuppy  Rogers's  folks  are  going  to 
give  him  some,  and " 

"  I  can't  help  it.  Tim  Foster's  made  money 
out  of  his  cranberries  this  year,  and  your 
169 


Our  Village 

gran'pa's  bogs  didn't  bear  hardly  anything. 
That  kind  of  skates  cost  two  dollars  and  a 
quarter,  and  that's  a  lot  of  money  these  hard 
times." 

"  Please,  gramma.  I  won't  ask  for  a  thing 
else  if  you'll  only  get  them.  Not  one  least 
little  mite  of  a  thing.  Aw,  please." 

"  No,  no.    Run  along  out  of  here." 

"  But  Oaks  and  Snuppy'll  have  'em.  Please 
do,  gramma.  I  won't  ask " 

"  Well,  well !  we'll  see.  Do  clear  out  and 
let  me  alone.  I  don't  know  whether  I've  put 
pepper  or  cinnamon  into  this  cake;  I  snum 
if  I  do !  " 

You  "  hooked  "  another  fistful  of  currants 
and  departed,  feeling,  on  the  whole,  hopeful. 
"  We'll  see,"  was  encouraging.  And  besides, 
how  did  she  know  what  the  skates  cost, 
if 

Grandma  called  after  you  as  you  were  leav- 
ing. She  wanted  to  know  if  you  wouldn't  find 
the  twins  and  see  what  they  were  up  to.  She 
"  cal'lated  "  they  were  over  at  the  Rogers's. 
And  would  you  be  sure  and  ask  Clorinda 
Rogers  not  to  forget  to  send  her  the  receipt 
170 


A  Christmas  Memory 

for  the  pudding  sass.    Any  time  before  Tues- 
day night  would  do. 

The  twins  were  at  the  Rogers's.    They  were 
watching  Mrs.   Rogers — Snuppy's  ma — make 


evergreen  wreaths  for  the  church.  There  was 
to  be  a  Sunday-school  Christmas  concert  on 
the  very  next  evening.  That  showed  you  how 
close  at  hand  was  the  coming.  Only  one — 
two — three — four  more  days — and  then! 
171 


Our  Village 

You  were  to  speak  a  piece  at  that  concert, 
you  remember.  "  In  the  solemn  midnight," 
was  it?  Or  "  Somebody's  Mother"? 

"  The  woman  was  old  and  ragged  and  gray, 
And  bent  with  the  chill  of  the  winter's  day." 

Perhaps  that  was  it.  And  one  of  the  twins 
was  to  speak,  "  Hang  up  the  baby's  stocking." 
The  children  were  not  to  take  part  in  the 
regular  morning  service  that  Christmas.  The 
year  before,  when  the  new  minister  was  very 
new,  they  had  done  so.  The  girls,  all  in  their 
"  Sunday-go-to-meeting  "  gowns,  and  happy, 
were  in  the  gallery  on  one  side  of  the  organ, 
and  the  boys,  in  hated  starchy  collars  and  a 
generally  wretched  and  rebellious  state,  were 
on  the  other  side.  And  when  it  was  very  still, 
after  the  prayer,  the  girls  piped  up  shrill  and 
clear : 

"  Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night, 
What  its  signs  of  glory  are." 

And  the  boys  answered  back  with: 

"  Traveler,  o'er  yon  mountain  height, 
See  that  glory  beaming  star." 

And  so  on. 

172 


A  Christmas  Memory 

All  the  fathers  and  mothers  and  the  Sun- 
day-school teachers,  who  were  in  the  secret, 
thought  it  "  so  cute  "  and  "  perfectly  lovely." 
But  old  Deacon  Mayo,  who  hadn't  known 
it  was  coming  and  was  asleep,  jumped  half 
out  of  his  pew  and  made  even  the  minister 
laugh.  The  deacon  all  but  called  a  parish 
meeting  in  consequence.  '  'Twas  a  healthy 
state  of  things  if  divine  service  was  to  be 
made  a  show  of  by  a  lot  of  play-acting  young 
ones." 

That  evergreen  smelled  more  Christmassy 
than  anything  else — more,  even,  than  grand- 
ma's kitchen.  You  and  Snuppy  had  gathered 
it,  up  in  the  pines  by  Scudder's  pond.  You 
knew  the  place,  of  course,  and  you  scraped 
away  the  snow  and  there  it  was,  fresh  and 
bright  as  could  be.  And  you  brought  home 
"  hog-cranberry  "  vines  with  berries  on  them, 
and  maybe  a  little  holly  from  a  bush  you  knew 
of.  But  holly  was  scarce. 

Snuppy's  ma — your  own  ma  had  died  when 
the  twins  were  born ;  just  before  your  pa  was 
lost  at  sea — said  that  Eddie,  which  was  Snup- 
py's dressed-up  name,  had  gone  skating.  So, 

173 


Our  Village 

after  a  while,  you 
took  the  twins  on  your  sled 
and  went  up  to  find  him. 

And    there,    where    the 
v,  melting  snow  had  made  a  long 

string  of  puddles  among  the 
stubs  of  last  year's  cornstalks,  were  Snuppy 
and  Oaks  Foster  and  "  Peeler "  Davis,  and 
more  of  the  "  gang."  And  the  talk  was  all 
of  the  coming. 

"  I  was  over  to  Orham  with  pa  yesterday," 
says  Oaks.  "  And  Mullett's  store's  full  of  the 
rippingest  things.  Just  heaps  and  heaps  of 
'em.  And  there's  the  bulliest  magic  lantern, 
with  pictures  to  show.  You  hang  up  a  sheet, 
and —  Aw,  it's  great!  And  I  teased  pa,  and 
I  bet  I'll  get  it  for  Christmas." 

"  Get  out !  Bet  you  don't.  Why,  magic 
lanterns  cost  barrels  of  money!  You  won't 
get  that,  Oaks;  don't  be  trying  to  show 
off." 

But  down  in  your  envious  heart  you  bet 
that  he  would  get  it.     Why  couldn't  grand- 
pa's cranberry  bogs  bear  as  well  as  other  peo- 
ple's?    It  shook  your  confidence  in  religion, 
174 


A  Christinas  Memory 

somehow.  Grandpa  was  a  "  professor  "  in 
prayer  meeting,  and  Oaks's  pa  swapped 
horses  and  didn't  go  to  church,  and  even 
played  with  cards — or  so  it  was  reported. 
The  kind  of  cards  gamblers  use,  too ;  not  those 
with  letters  on  them,  like  your  Logomachy 
set. 

So  you  talked  and  speculated  and  wished 
all  the  way  home.  And  so  you  did  the  next 
day,  during  the  sermon.  And  when  grandma 
asked  you  for  the  text,  you  had  forgotten  it, 
and  she  begged  to  know  what  end  you 
thought  you  were  coming  to. 

When  Sunday,  concert  and  all,  was  over, 
and  you  went  to  school  on  Monday  morning, 
it  was  just  the  same.  The  general  atmos- 
phere of  hot  stove,  wet  rubbers,  and  damp 
slates  was  much  as  usual,  but  in  through  the 
windows  poured  the  December  sun,  cutting 
long,  gold-powdered  lanes  through  the  dusty 
air.  Just  like  the  glory  from  heaven  that 
streamed  down  upon  the  shepherds,  as  it  was 
pictured  in  your  "  Story  of  the  Bible."  And 
girls  and  boys  fidgeted,  and  whispered,  and 
absentmindedly  missed  in  their  lessons.  And 

175 


Our  Village 

teacher  didn't  scold,  for  she,  too,  was  absent- 
minded.  There  was  that  young  man  who 
came  over  from  Harniss  on  Sundays ;  the  one 
with  the  lavender  trousers  and  black  "  Clay 
diagonal,"  who  drove  the  fast  horse.  What 
would  he  bring  her  for  this,  the  last  Christ- 
mas before 

Even  the  "  Injun  camp  "  up  in  the  scrub 
back  of  Peeler  Davis's  barn  was  corrupted  by 
the  disturbing  influence.  You  had  a  fire 
there,  and  boiled  potatoes  in  a  tin  kettle — real- 
ly boiled  'em,  just  as  Dick  Lewis  or  Old  Bob 
Kelley,  the  trappers,  might  have  done.  Bars 
and  buffler!  think  of  it.  But  now,  instead  of 
burning  anyone  at  the  stake,  or  following  rab- 
bit tracks  and  pretending  them  to  be  those  of 
grizzly  bears,  you  stood  around  the  fire  and 
mused  and  guessed  and  hoped. 

There  was  precious  little  fun  in  scalping  a 
fellow,  when  he  interrupted  the  operation  to 
observe : 

"  Oh,  say,  Tinker !  Did  you  hear  what  Ben 
Sears  is  going  to  have?  An  air  gun.  Yes, 
sir !  One  that  shoots  shot.  We  must  let  him 
join  the  tribe ;  then  maybe  we  can  take  it 

1*5 


A  Christmas  Memory 

sometimes.    Aw,  cracky ! 
Don't  you  wish  you  was  x 
him?  " 

You  and  the  other 
noble  redmen  strolled 
home  through  the  dusk, 
bragging  about  the 
wonders  that  were  to  be  yours,  and  loudly 
pitying  little  innocents,  like  the  twins,  who 
didn't  know  any  better  than  to  believe  in 
Santa  Claus. 

But  the  twins  didn't  need  any  pity.  They 
gloried  in  their  ignorance  and  shouted  de- 
mands and  supplications  up  the  fireplace,  sure 
that  Santa,  listening  at  the  chimney  top,  would 
hear  and  take  notes.  They  sat,  wide-eyed,  as 
grandma  read  them  how : 

"  He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  on  a  thistle." 

They  heard  the  sleigh  bells  and  the  pranc- 
ing hoofs  already.  Your  lofty  air  of  conde- 
scending superiority  was  entirely  wasted  on 
the  twins. 

Grandpa  came  home  from  Orham  on  Tues- 
177 


Our  Village 

day,  just  before  dark.  The  sleigh  was  filled 
with  brown-paper  parcels.  Most  of  these 
were  intrusted  to  you  to  carry  to  the  house. 

"  And  don't  you  touch  a  thing,  sonny ;  un- 
derstand? And  go  in  the  front  door  so's  the 
twins  won't  hear  you.  Put  the  bundles  on  the 
bed  in  our  room  and  send  grandma  up  there 
right  off." 

"  But,  grandpa,  this  ain't  all.  What's  those 
others?  And  what's  that  big  one  you've  got 
under  your  coat  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind.  Trot  right  along.  And 
see  here!  don't  you  tell  gramma  you  see  me 
with  anything  else.  If  you  do  I'll — I  don't 
know's  I  won't  skin  you." 

So  you  went  tiptoeing  in  at  the  front  door, 
the  door  so  seldom  used  that  to  open  it  seemed 
strange  even  to  you.  And  when  you  had  dis- 
appeared, grandpa  hurried  to  the  tool  box 
in  the  back  kitchen,  where  he  deposited  the 
big  package,  the  heavy  shawl  that  grandma 
had  long  coveted  but  didn't  "  feel  right  to 
afford,"  and  the  little  box  containing  the  jet 
earrings  shaped  like  daisy  blossoms.  And 
meanwhile  grandma,  upstairs  in  the  bedroom, 
178 


A  Christinas  Memory 

was  hastily  locking  up  the  almost  finished 
"  double-knit  driving  mittens  "  that  were  to 
keep  grandpa's  toil-roughened  hands  warm 
later  on. 

The  old  house  was  filled  with  secrets.  Closet 
doors  were  locked  and  bureau-drawer  keys 
had  flown.  It  was  all  mysterious  and  creepy 
and — splendid. 

Down  at  the  post  office — which  was  Dan- 
iels's  store  under  its  other  name — the  crowd 
waiting  that  evening  for  the  mail  to  be  sorted 
was  larger  than  usual;  and  it  had  to  wait 
longer,  too.  When  the  depot  wagon  drove  up 
to  the  door  and  the  carrier  entered  with  the 
bulging  leather  sack,  Cap'n  Daniels  resigned 
the  tidy  and  album  trade  to  Aunt  Tryphosa  and 
disappeared  into 
the  little  room  be- 
hind the  frames 
of  letter  boxes. 
Occasionally  you 
caught  glimpses  of  _^ 
him  holding  a 
small  package  to 
the  light,  and  peer- 

179 


Our  Village 

ing    doubtfully    at    the   address   through    his 
"  nigh-to  "  glasses. 

"  Now  hold  on,  all  hands !  "  commands  the 
cap'n,  pushing  up  the  slide  of  the  distribut- 
ing window.  "  Don't  everybody  shove  and 
holler.  There's  a  whole  mess  of  these  'ere 
bundles." 

He  proceeds  to  read  the  names  on  the  wrap- 
pers, stammering  and  hesitating  and  stopping 
occasionally  to  wipe  his  spectacles.  One  by 
one  the  packages  are  claimed.  Oaks  Fos- 
ter gets  one  and  leaves  in  triumph.  The 
school-teacher's  name  is  called  and  her  young 
brother  steps  forward  to  receive  a  neat  oblong 
box  tied  with  red  ribbon.  You  get  three ;  one 
for  yourself  and  one  for  each  of  the  twins. 
The  postmark  was  Eastboro — Aunt  Susan's 
folks,  of  course. 

And  at  last,  it  was  here,  the  night  when 
"  all  through  the  house  " — and  the  rest  of  it. 
The  twins,  wild  with  excitement,  were  packed 
off  to  bed.  To  sleep  ?  Well,  not  for  tfie  first 
hour,  at  any  rate. 

Half  past  eight.    You  took  the  candlesticks 
from  the  kitchen  mantel. 
180 


A  Christmas  Memory 

"  Good  night,  gramma.  Good  night,  gram- 
pa." 

"  Good  night,  Jimmie.  Shut  your  door 
tight,  and  go  right  to  sleep." 

It  was  cold,  mighty  cold,  up  in  the  little 
bedroom  with  the  window  under  the  eaves  and 
the  painted  bunches  of  flowers  on  the  bedstead 
and  bureau  and  washstand.  The  feathers  felt 
soft  and  snug  beneath  you,  and  blankets  and 
the  "  log-cabin  "  quilt  warm  above.  The  wind 
talked  and  whimpered  around  the  window. 
Outside  it  was  all  white  and  shiny  and  still. 
You  must  go  to  sleep  quick  because  that 
would  bring  the  morning.  But  you  simply 
couldn't  sleep.  Why  was  it  necessary  for  the 
night  before  Christmas  to  last  a  million  years  ? 
How  about  those  sheep  jumping  the  wall? 
One — two — three  .  .  .  twenty-six — twenty- 
seven  .  .  .  forty-one — forty-two  .  .  .  for " 

You  know  now — you  didn't  know  it  then — 
that  down  in  the  dining  room  the  brown- 
paper  packages  were  piled  on  the  floor  and 
grandpa  was  cutting  the  strings.  The  stock- 
ings— not  the  twins'  own  stockings:  oh,  no! 
they  were  too  small ;  but  a  pair  of  grandma's 
13  181 


Our  Village 

—were  hanging  by  the  mantel.  Little  by  lit- 
tle they  grew  warty  and  dropsical  and  shape- 
less. 

Grandpa  undoes  another  package.  Grand- 
ma, standing  with  the  candle  in  her  hand — she 
is  just  about  to  light  it — looks  on. 

"  He'll  be  awful  tickled  with  them  skates," 
says  grandpa  musingly.  "  Land  sakes !  he'd 
ought  to  be;  they  cost  enough." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  replies  grandma.  "  But  I'm 
so  glad  you  got  'em  for  him.  Seems  to  me 
that — that  'twould  have  pleased  James  so.  He 
set  such  store  by  that  boy." 

"  Maybe  he  knows  about  it,  Mary.  Maybe 
he  does." 

"  Maybe  so." 

A  silence,  and  then  the  candle  was 'lighted 
•  .  and  the  door  closed. 


The  old  house  shut 
its  eyes.  The  wind 
sang  and  whistled. 
The  icy  sleigh  bells  on 
the  apple-tree  boughs 
clinked  and  chimed. 
The  stars  shone  bright 
182 


He'll  be  awful  tickled  with  them  skates.'" 


A  Christmas  Memory 

and  clear,  just  as  they  must  have  shone  over 
Bethlehem. 


"  Gramma !     Gramma !  " 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  I  can't  hardly  hear  my- 
self think,  them  children  make  such  a  racket." 

"  Gramma,  sit  down  a  minute  and  let  me 
show  you.  See;  it's  just  like  I  said:  all  you 
have  to  do  is  put  it  against  your  foot  and  push 
in  this  little  lever  thing.  There !  " 

"Do  you  like  'em?" 

"  You  just  bet! "  There  is  a  little  shake  in 
your  voice,  a  quiver  of  pure,  unadulterated 
happiness,  such  as  comes  not  too  often  in  a 
lifetime.  Grandma  hears  it,  and  her  specta- 
cles grow  misty.  Her  boy's  boy!  She  takes 
off  the  spectacles  and  wipes  them. 

Your  own  eyeglasses  grow  misty,  now,  as 
you  think  of  it. 

Ah,  hum.  .  .  .  Well.  .  .  .  Merry  Christ- 
mas! 

(i) 

THE    END 


TWO   GOOD    NOVELS. 


Cy  Whittaker's  Place. 

A  Novel  of  Cape  Cod  Life,  by  JOSEPH  C. 
LINCOLN,  Author  of  "  Mr.  Pratt,"  "  Cap'n  Eri,"  etc. 
27  illustrations  by  Wallace  Morgan,  colored  inlay 
on  cover.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

Cape  Cod  life,  as  pictured  by  Joseph  C.  Lincoln,  is  de- 
lightful in  its  homeliness,  its  wholesomeness,  its  quaint  sim- 
plicity. The  plot  of  this  novel  revolves  around  a  little  girl 
whom  an  old  bachelor,  Cy  Whittaker,  adopts.  Her  educa- 
tion is  too  stupendous  a  task  for  the  old  man  to  attempt  alone, 
so  he  calls  in  two  old  cronies  and  they  form  a  "  Board 
of  Strategy."  A  dramatic  story  of  unusual  merit  then  de- 
velops, and  through  it  all  runs  that  rich  vein  of  humor  which 
has  won  for  the  author  a  fixed  place  in  the  hearts  of  thousands 
of  readers.  Cy  Whittaker  is  the  David  Harum  of  Cape  Cod. 

The  Whispering  Man. 

A  Detective  Story  Worth  While,  by  HENRY 
KITCHELL  WEBSTER.  Frontispiece.  12010.  Deco- 
rated cloth,  $1.50. 

A  detective  story  you  ought  to  read.  Something  alto- 
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the  reader  throughout  the  whole  story,  and  are  yet  so  con- 
cealed that  the  unsuspecting  reader  is  amazed  at  the  outcome. 
To  those  who  have  tired  of  the  ordinary  type  of  detective 
story,  we  commend  this  different  novel  as  most  refreshing. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,    NEW     YORK. 


AN   UNUSUAL   NOVEL. 


Old  Wives  for  New. 

By  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS.  i2mo.  Cloth, 
$1.50. 

The  title  of  Mr.  Phillips'  new  novel  is  a  daring 
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of  a  young  couple  who  loved  as  others  do,  but 
whose  love  turns  to  indifference,  and  Mr.  Phillips 
shows  us  why  their  married  life  was  a  failure. 

"  Things  about  women  which  have  never  seen  the  light 
of  day  before." — St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press. 

"  Comes  near  being  a  second  Balzac." 

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D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,    NEW     YORK. 


NOVELS  BY  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 


SPECIAL  MESSENGER.     Illustrated.     J2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 
A  romantic  love  story  of  a  woman  spy  in  the  Civil  War. 

THE  FIRING  LINE.     Illustrated.     t2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  tale  is  rich  in  vivid  descriptions,  pleasing  incidents,  effective  situations, 
human  interest  and  luxurious  scenic  effects.  It  is  a  story  to  be  remembered." 

—  Grand  Rapids  Herald. 

THE  YOUNGER  SET.    Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  Younger  Set"  is  a  novel  of  the  swirl  of  wealthy  New  York  society. 
The  hero,  forced  out  of  the  army  by  domestic  troubles,  returns  to  New  York 
homeless  and  idle.  He  finds  a  beautiful  girl  who  promises  ideal  happiness. 
But  new  complications  intervene  and  are  described  with  what  the  New  York 
Sun  calls  Mr.  Chambers'  "  amazing  knack  of  narrative." 

THE  FIGHTING  CHANCE.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  pictures  of  wealthy  American  society  ever  painted; 
one  of  the  most  interesting  and  appealing  stories  ever  written  ;  one  of  the  most 
widely  read  of  all  American  novels. 

SOME  LADIES  IN  HASTE.    Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

Mr.  Chambers  has  written  most  delightfully,  and  in  his  charming  satire 
depicts  the  plight  of  five  society  girls  and  five  clubmen. 

IOLE.    Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Think  of  eight  pretty  girls  in  pink  silk  pajamas  and  sunbonnets,  brought 
up  in  innocence  in  a  scientific  Eden,  with  a  '  House  Beautiful '  in  the  back- 
ground, and  a  poetical  father  in  the  foreground.  Think  again  of  those  rose- 
petalled  creations  turned  loose  upon  New  York  society  and  then  enjoy  the  fun 
of  it  all  in  '  lole."  " — Boston  Herald. 

THE  TRACER  OF  LOST  PERSONS.    Illustrated.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  captivating  account  of  the  strangely  absorbing  adventures  of  a  "  matri- 
monial sleuth,"  "  a  deputy  of  Cupid." 

•'  Compared  with  him  Sherlock  Holmes  is  clumsy  and  without  human 
emotions." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

THE  TREE  OF  HEAVEN.    Illustrated.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

If  you  looked  squarely  into  a  mirror  and  saw  your  PROFILE  instead  of 
your  full  face,  if  you  suddenly  found  yourself  25  miles  away  from  yourself, 
you  would  be  in  one  of  the  tantalizing  situations  that  give  fascination  to  this 
charming  book. 

THE  RECKONING.    Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  story  of  northern  New  York  during  the  last  fierce  fights  between  Tories 
and  Revolutionaries  and  the  Iroquois  Indians,  by  which  tribe  the  hero  had 
been  adopted. 

.    "It  would  be  but  an  unresponsive  American  that  would  not  thrill  to  such 
relations." — New  York  Times. 

D.     APPLETON    AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 

433 


STORIES  FOR  YOUNG  READERS 


JOURNEYS  OF  THE  KIT  KAT  CLUB.    Illus- 
trated.    8vo.     $2.00  Net. 
By  WILLIAM  R.  A.  WILSON. 

A  beautifully  illustrated  volume  filled  with  interesting  and  salient 
features  of  English  history,  folk-lore,  politics,  and  scenery. 

BUTT    CHANLER,    FRESHMAN.    Illustrated. 

I2mo.     $1.50. 

By  JAMES  SHELLEY  HAMILTON,  Amherst  "06. 
College  sports  are  always  a  subject  of  interest  to  young  readers, 
and  here  are  incidents  that  are  dear  to  all  college  associates. 

"The  story  is  breezy,  bright,  and  clean." — The  Bookseller,  New 
York. 

WILLIAMS  OF  WEST  POINT.    Illustrated.    I2mo. 

$1.50. 

By  Lieut.  HUGH  S.  JOHNSON. 

A  story  of  West  Point  under  the  old  code.  "  Every  boy  with 
red  blood  in  his  veins  will  pronounce  it  a  corker." — The  Globe, 
Boston, 

THE  SUBSTITUTE.     Illustrated.     I2mo.     $1.50. 

By  WALTER   CAMP. 

"  Presents  the  ideal  to  football  enthusiasts.  The  author's  name 
is  guarantee  of  the  accuracy  of  descriptions  of  the  plays." — The 
Courant,  Hartford,  Conn. 

THE    FOREST    RUNNERS.      Illustrated  in    Color. 

J2mo.     $1.50. 

By  JOSEPH  A.  ALTSHELER. 

This  story  deals  with  the  further  adventures  of  the  two  young 
woodsmen  in  the  history  of  Kentucky  who  were  heroes  in  "  The 
Young  Trailers."  The  story  is  full  of  thrills  to  appeal  to  every  boy 
who  loves  a  good  story. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,    NEW     YORK. 
434 


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